


Like a Mouse in a Cage

by sarabritannia (prettygirlharry)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Harry, Breath Control, Crossdressing, Dom Louis, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Feminization, Gen, M/M, OT5 Friendship, Over stimulation, Panic Attacks, Sub Harry, Subdrop, Subspace, The X Factor Era, Time Travel, Top Louis, pain play, tell my mother im sorry, yeah this is basically an extended kink fic but with lots of plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygirlharry/pseuds/sarabritannia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This is </i>not<i> the room he fell asleep in.</i></p><p><i>This is </i>not<i> Australia.</i></p><p><i>This is </i>not<i> a high-rise ocean front hotel with a fully-stocked mini bar and his favourite boy cuddled up in a king size bed, drooling all over the pillows with his hair in a riot around his head.</i></p><p>
  <i>This is his mother's house in Holmes Chapel, and he is very much alone.</i>
</p><p><i>“Holy shit,” he says aloud, because really, holy shit</i>.</p><p>Harry wakes up three years in the past, in August 2010, with no explanation and no idea how he's going to get back to his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Chapter Warnings:** Adult language; non-violent domestic argument; brief, non-graphic mentions of male nudity; involuntary time travel / time slip; _detailed description of subdrop / panic attack; breath control (consensual strangulation) used as a stress management technique; dubious consent in applying breath control_ ; allusions to D/s relationship dynamic; description of mild subspace; lack of aftercare; mentions of consensual verbal feminisation of a biologically male character
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [sarabritannia](http://sarabritannia.tumblr.com)!
> 
> This starts towards the end of the Take Me Home tour, just because I started writing it back in September and then forgot about it and then when I rediscovered the draft in my folders the other day I didn't feel like updating it to fit in with the current timeline because I'm sort of lazy. But yeah, just a note so no one gets confused on when this is happening. Basically September 2013 is where they start from.
> 
> Title from "Whisper" by A Fine Frenzy.

The door to their suite slams shut with a frame-rattling crash as Harry storms in after Louis, who's already toeing off his shoes and running shaking fingers through his fringe to get rid of some of the day's gel and styling.

Harry throws his keys and phone haphazardly onto the bed, not even bothering to look to see if they've bounced to the floor or not. He rakes his hands back through his curls, wraps his fingers into tight fists and tugs harshly at his own hair like somehow that will ground him, like maybe it'll release some of the pent-up energy and stress and anger that's pounding through him right now, pumping through his veins, furious and nasty and ugly like it's trying desperately to infect every inch of him.

“I just don't understand why she's here at all, is the thing, Lou,” Harry growls out. “Help me to fucking understand. Because I really don't get it. I really, honestly don't.”

Louis takes a deep breath and averts his eyes. “You're drunk, babe.”

Harry ignores him.

“It's just that, like, this — Fuck, Australia's meant to be _ours_ , okay, like... Fuck. What the _fuck_ , Louis?”

And the thing is, Harry's not even angry with Louis. It isn't Louis' fault, it's really not, and Harry _knows_ that, he _knows_. But it's hard to remember that right now, when he's been taken completely by surprise. When _she's_ been sprung on him like this. He had no idea she was even meant to be coming on this trip. Not until she'd shown up at the hotel bar an hour ago with her hair perfectly styled and her nails impeccably manicured, decked out head-to-toe in expensive clothing and carrying that fucking Mulberry bag Louis had bought her for her birthday. That _they'd_ bought her for her birthday, really, because joint bank accounts and a shared mortgage and the weight of a ring on Harry's finger that feels like it might just be mocking him right now, and _fuck_. What the fuck.

“I thought all this shit was supposed to be winding down,” Harry continues, pacing now in front of the bed as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. “I thought they were finally giving us a bit of space. And then _this_. Like, what happened to 'it'll be over by Christmas'? What about our fucking holiday from all this? I thought we were _done_ , Lou. You said it yourself, in LA. You _said_. You promised, okay, like I just — ”

“I know what I said, Harry, and I meant it, okay? But this isn't my fault, and it's not Eleanor's either. Oh, honestly, Haz, really?” Louis says, because Harry had visibly flinched at the mention of her name. “She's not a fucking sea creature. She's not Voldemort. You can stomach hearing her name. Stop being so overdramatic.”

“I'm sorry I'm not overly fond of your 'pretty student' girlfriend,” Harry spits out, dropping into an armchair to pull at his boots. “The rest of the world seems to just fucking adore her, though. Even your mum 'couldn't ask for a better girlfriend' for you, right? How dare I speak a word against her when Mummy Dearest loves her so.”

Louis rubs his hands over his face and lets out a frustrated groan. “Stop being such a fucking bitch about this, oh my god,” he growls through his fingers. “That's all just PR bullshit. You can't just whip that out like you actually believe the hype when _you spent an hour trading recipes with my mum on Skype this morning_.”

“I'm allowed to be angry, okay? Just let me be pissed off for ten fucking minutes without patronising me and treating me like I'm an idiot. Can you do that? Can you please just let me be angry?” Harry kicks his boot off hard enough that it ricochets off the leg of the coffee table. “I'm sorry I can't be your nice, sweet girlfriend every fucking second of my life like you probably wish I was. It's fucking exhausting, Lou, okay? And to have _her_ show up unannounced when I'm meant to just be having an easy night with my mates and my boyfriend really makes me honestly want to rip my hair out. So yeah, I'm going to be a bitch right now.”

Harry pulls his shirt the rest of the way off and stands to peel his jeans down, making defiant eye contact with Louis when he straightens back up. He watches Louis' nostrils flare and stares at the muscle working in his jaw, his half-formed scowl deepening into a hardened glare as Louis' eyes narrow just that bit more, until Louis takes a deep breath and sighs, his eyes fluttering shut and the tension falling from his shoulders as he sinks to the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“You're right,” Louis says finally, and he just sounds _tired_. “You're allowed to be angry. Fuck, _I'm_ angry.”

Harry bites his lip and scrubs a hand over his face, reaches up to push his fringe out of his eyes.

“Shit,” he mutters, because this really _isn't_ Louis' fault.

He pads over to the bed and threads his fingers loosely through the hair at the back of Louis' neck, pulling him forward until his forehead is pressed gently against Harry's stomach. Neither of them speaks for a long moment, not until things have gone so quiet that the silence is starting to ring through Harry's ears like a physical presence.

“Let's just try and get some sleep, yeah?” Louis says finally, his words muffled against Harry's skin.

Harry lets out a noise of agreement that probably sounds more like a whimper than anything else. Now that all the fight's gone out of him, he really does feel exhausted. It's not the good kind of exhausted, though, like how he gets after a show or a full day's rehearsal or a particularly intense workout. It's the kind of exhaustion that feels like it's dug its way into his bones, sucked all the marrow out of him and left him empty and hollow and defeated. He feels like a kicked puppy that's been left out in the cold, or maybe like a child with a black eye that's in desperate need of a hug.

Who does he think he's kidding; he _is_ a beaten-down child in desperate need of a hug.

Louis skims his thumb over the black ink on Harry's hipbone, _might as well_ , and hooks his fingers under the elastic waistband of Harry's pants to tug them down his thighs until Harry can kick them off. There's a warm brush of lips against the tattoo that runs with the contour of Harry's pelvic bone, the one that only Louis is privy to, the one that spells out Harry's whole heart and his deepest secrets and his fondest hopes and his most fantastic dreams, all of it contained in the single letter _L_ followed by an infinity symbol.

Harry's fingers clench tighter in Louis' hair for a brief moment at the memory of how nervous Louis had been holding the tattoo gun and inking the symbol into Harry's pale skin.

Marking him, claiming him.

He takes another deep breath before moving to kneel on the bed behind Louis, draping himself over his back and working his hands under the bottom hem of Louis' T-shirt to push it up and over his head. Harry kisses the back of his shoulder as he tosses the thin shirt in the general direction of their dirty-clothes suitcase in the corner. Louis' skin is warm and salty under his lips, full of residual sunlight and seaspray from their day spent on the beach with the other boys, and Harry's heart pangs at the memory of how happy and carefree they'd been today and at how achingly long ago that feels, really only a few hours gone.

“I love you,” Harry murmurs, burying his face in Louis' neck and snaking his arms around his waist from behind, tapping his fingers in a little nonsense pattern over the skin of Louis' stomach.

Louis lifts his hips off the bed just enough to shove down his shorts and briefs in one tangled mess, and then he rests his weight back against Harry's chest, bringing a hand up to thread his fingers through Harry's curls and scratch at the warm skin behind Harry's ear.

“Love you too, H,” Louis says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry sinks his teeth lightly into the join of Louis' shoulder, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to ground them both, to remind them that they're still alive. He tugs Louis' head around until he can kiss him, lick into his mouth light and gentle, just enough to reassure, to say that they'll be okay. He's not quite ready to apologise for their fight yet, but this he can do. This he can _always_ do. He thinks he'd find a way to do it even if they were flung to opposite ends of the universe, probably.

He lingers until Louis is loose and pliant against him, then he pulls back slowly and rests his forehead against Louis temple, eyes closed and heart beating out a jackrabbit rhythm in his chest.

“We'll make it through,” Louis says after a moment, quietly like he's saying it to himself, reminding himself.

Silently, Harry reaches behind him to turn off the lamp, and they move through the darkness to lie under the covers, Louis curled around Harry's back with an arm draped over his waist and a hand pressed against his heart, keeping track of the beat and tracing the outline of a bird.

Harry swallows hard around a lump in his throat and closes his eyes against the sting of tears that feel ready to start rolling down his cheeks in fat drops, willing himself to just drop off to sleep so he won't have to feel this hollow ache anymore, at least not for a few hours. He wishes, with every possible fibre of his being, that there was a way, any way at all, that things could be different for them, that they wouldn't have to go through the suffering and the pain and the stress that leads them to take their frustration out on each other in the worst ways possible, because he's afraid, sometimes, that it might all get to be too much for them one day.

He reaches up to lace his fingers with Louis', pulling the other boy closer against his back, and holds on tight, not yet willing to let go.

Honestly, Harry doesn't think he'll ever be willing to let go.

+++

A few hours later, an alarm blares obnoxiously, screaming at Harry and pulling him from sleep. He groans and rolls over to bury his face in Louis' neck, hoping to shield his eyes from the harsh morning sunlight. He doesn't recall setting an alarm last night, and he's pretty sure they don't have anything set up for this morning, so there's no reason for Paul to have arranged for a wakeup call, leaving only one possible explanation.

“Dammit Niall,” Harry grumbles, stretching his arm out in search of Louis and frowning into his pillow when his arm meets with nothing.

He shuffles closer to the side of the bed where Louis should be, but instead of a sleep-ruffled boy, he finds the edge of the mattress and a worrying expanse of empty air, and he squawks with perhaps a bit less dignity than he'd care to admit as he goes tumbling to the floor with an almighty _crash_.

Harry sits up, rubbing at the rapidly-forming lump on the back of his head and scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he looks up, though, he freezes in panic and confusion, his whole body jolting in shock and pulling him the rest of the way from sleep.

This is _not_ the room he fell asleep in.

This is _not_ Australia.

This is _not_ a high-rise ocean front hotel with a fully-stocked mini bar and his favourite boy cuddled up in a king size bed, drooling all over the pillows with his hair in a riot around his head.

This is his mother's house in Holmes Chapel, and he is very much alone.

“Holy shit,” he says aloud, because really, _holy shit_.

It's then that he notices the alarm is still blaring some old song by The Wanted that Harry didn't even realise was still in radio rotation, and it's stupid, because there are so many bigger things for him to be worrying about right now (like how he seems to have mysteriously teleported to _the other side of the planet_ during the middle of the night), but he feels a petty pang of annoyance run through him when he realises he still remembers the words to this horrible song: _how do you get up, get out?_

Fucking Max George.

There's a knock at the door of the bedroom, and Harry's head snaps around.

“Harry? Are you up?” calls a voice from the other side. “We've got to get going soon.”

Harry sits frozen for another moment before scrambling to his feet.

“Mum?” he asks, completely bewildered as he stumbles toward the door. He clears his throat as he pulls it open. “Mum, do you have any idea how I got here? Because I've no idea what's going on.”

Anne raises an eyebrow at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Were you out drinking last night?” she asks, giving him a stern look. “You know how I feel about Will and Haydn, Harry. You really should choose your friends more wisely.”

Harry shakes his head in confusion. Will and Haydn? He hasn't seen them since before he left for X Factor. They'd made it pretty clear back then that they wanted nothing to do with him after he'd left them for a boyband.

“What are you on about, Will and Haydn?” he asks, frowning. “Mum, I'm meant to be in Australia. I _was_ in Australia, like, six hours ago. We've got a show in Sydney tonight. I've got to call Lou. He'll be wondering where I've got to, and god, how am I even going to explain this? How am I even here right now?”

He leaves his mum at the door and starts shuffling things around on the nightstand, searching for his mobile. He's dimly aware of his mother watching him from the door (decidedly _not_ springing into action to help him, by the way, thank you very much Mum), but he's more worried about the fact that he can't seem to find _anything_ in this mess. Why is everything so damn cluttered in here? He really needs to have a talk with Gemma about using his old bedroom as her own personal storage unit.

“Mum, could you like, help me please? I need to make some calls and figure out what's going on,” he says, starting to feel a bit frantic at this point, because honestly. The show is in less than twelve hours, and a flight to Sydney takes _at least_ fourteen. He's so fucked; Paul is going to be _pissed_. Anne doesn't move from her place in the doorway, though, and when Harry looks up, she's staring at him silently, looking very concerned.

“Sweetie, are you feeling alright?” she asks finally, her frown deepening as she studies his face. “You're rambling, and I'm really only understanding half of it. And the half I'm understanding doesn't make any sense.”

Harry pushes his hair out of his face and drops down to sit on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “What? Mum, no, I'm fine, I just really need to figure out how I ended up here. I feel fine. I'm happy to see you, I just. Sorry, but I'm meant to be in Australia right now,” he says again. “Could I use your phone to ring Louis? I can't find mine in this mess.”

There's another beat of silence in which his mum studies his face before she moves to sit next to him, reaching a hand out to feel his forehead. “Harry,” she says carefully, taking hold of one of his hands. “Love, you've never been to Australia before. And you don't know a Louis.”

Harry's eyes flick over her face for any sign that she's joking, but she looks completely serious, no hint of laughter in her eyes at all. Harry inherited his acting skills from his mother, which is to say that neither of them can pass off a convincing lie to save their lives. Her face just looks deeply concerned, no sign at all that this is some elaborate prank being carried off by Niall or something. His heart stops in his chest, and his stomach swoops so dramatically that Harry's afraid he might actually be sick.

“Mum, that isn't funny.”

She shakes her head slightly, her frown deepening. “I'm not trying to be funny, Harry,” she says quietly. “I'm starting to really worry about you. Are you sure you don't want me to call Doctor McGuiness?”

“Wait, back up,” he tells her. “What do you mean I don't know a Louis? Mum, he's... _Louis_. How do you... you just talked to him yesterday about plans for the wedding. That...is happening in six months? My wedding? Mum, come on. You're joking, right? This is a joke?”

There's a prolonged, ringing silence between the two of them as they stare at each other for a very long moment.

“That's it, I'm calling the doctor,” Anne says finally. “You're not doing the show anymore. Maybe it's the stress that's gotten to you.”

Harry grabs at her hand desperately as she begins to rise from the bed. “No, Mum, stop. Just... I have to do the show. That's what I've been talking about. I need to find out how to get there,” he says.

She studies him for a moment longer, and then her lips twitch and she breathes a sigh, cracking a smile. “Oh, thank god,” she says, and she sounds _relieved_ for some reason. “You really had me going with all that talk about Australia and a wedding.” She hits him on the arm before standing up and walking toward the door. “Don't you ever scare me like that again, young man. I was really worried about you there for a minute.”

Harry feels something in his chest sink, and he's not quite sure why. “What are you talking about, Mum?” he asks slowly, because if she knows about the show, then she must know about Australia and Louis and all the rest of it, and he's honestly beginning to wonder if she's done her head in.

“Harry, seriously, stop joking around and get dressed or we'll be late. We're on a schedule getting to Sheffield, and we can't make your sister miss her check-in,” she says, and with that, she's breezing out of the room and closing the door with a decisive click.

Harry runs his hands back through his curls and lets his cheeks puff out with a breath that he didn't realise he'd been holding. What in the ever-loving hell is going on with this day? He shakes his head as he heaves himself up from the edge of the bed to pick his way across the mess of the room toward his old bathroom. While there may be big things to worry about right now, the need to piss has been climbing the list for the last half hour, and he's reached critical point.

It's as he's washing his hands after that he truly begins to comprehend the severity of this situation.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, and it's like everything narrows down to a single point, complete tunnel vision as he lets the bar of soap slip from his shock-slackened fingers, the water running pointlessly into the sink as he reaches up with damp hands to rub at his eyes.

Because the person he sees in his reflection is _not him_.

Well, it _is_ , technically, but not... His bare chest is just that — _bare_. He skims his hand over the skin of his collar bones, presses his fingertips into the spot over his heart that's meant to be covered by a black-ink swallow, the same bird Louis had been running his fingers over last night as they'd fallen asleep. He takes stock of his entire body, even pulls his thin cotton pyjama bottoms down to check the crease of his V-line, but _nothing_. Not only that, but he doesn't _have_ a V-line. He runs his hand over the slightly pudgy swell of his stomach, pinches at the small love handles on his sides, all the places that have hardened and turned to muscle over the last few years and are suddenly soft and pliant. It's then that he leans closer to the mirror and takes a closer look at his face. Rounder with chubby-soft cheeks, his hair in tight ringlets around his face.

Harry doesn't think he believes the thought that's forming in his mind, because it's not possible, and it doesn't make sense; it _doesn't_ , not even a little bit, but it's the only way to explain what he's seeing right now, the only way in any possible universe why his mum wouldn't know anything about anything.

No.

No no no.

No.

Harry rears back from the mirror and all but bolts out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, his old bedroom, the one he had when he was growing up, the one he'd all but emptied when he'd moved all of his things to London, because he doesn't live in Holmes Chapel anymore. _No_ , he lives in London with Louis in a house that they own together. Not always in London, though, because sometimes they live in their house in LA or their flat in Paris, but never, _never_ in his mum's house in Holmes Chapel. No.

He's very still as he takes in the room around him: the battered school books lined up neatly on a shelf in the corner, the pile of dirty T-shirts and flannel button-ups and baggy chino trousers on the floor, the plaid quilt his gran had knit for him when he was small (that he knows, for the record, is meant to be folded neatly at the bottom of the bed in the Paris flat), the posters of Coldplay and Top Gear and Frankie Sandford tacked crudely to the walls, the handmade sign reading _WHITE ESKIMO_ in spiky Sharpie letters, and the digital clock on the nightstand that tells him, in no uncertain terms, that the date is 14 August, 2010.

“Holy shit,” he says aloud again, because really, _holy shit_.

+++

When Harry comes to (he didn't realise he'd passed out, but apparently so, because he's lying on the floor naked, and the room is spinning), it's to Gemma nailing him in the stomach with an incredibly well-placed kick. Harry doubles up in pain, curling in on himself on the floor to wrap his arms around his midsection. Not a dream, then.

“Oi!” he groans, rolling to his side and shielding his balls with one hand just in case she makes a repeat attack as he swipes at her ankles with his other arm. “Fuck, Gem. What was that for?”

“Get the lead out, baby bro,” she tells him, jumping out of the way of his swinging arm. “We're leaving in ten minutes and Mum told me to come make sure you haven't totally lost the plot, because she thinks you're cracking up.”

Harry blinks up at her blearily from his foetal position on the floor, and god, even from here he can tell how different she looks. How _young_. She's younger right now than Harry is. Younger than he was? Or will be? He rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself off the floor, groaning as he feels the twinge in his abdomen left by her toes.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” he tells her, even though he's not fine, nothing's fine, nothing's _going_ to be fine. He's about as far from fine as he's ever been in his life, and he's not sure he _hasn't_ gone mad, actually, now that he thinks about it. He rubs a hand back through his hair, pushing it up and off his face like he's gotten used to wearing it over the past year or so. “I am naked, though, so could you like...”

Gemma pulls a face at him. “Just be ready to go in ten, okay? I don't want to be late starting out,” she says as she moves to leave his room, and Harry would really like to know what the deal is with people nonchalantly coming in and out of the room and telling him cryptic things before swanning off like it's absolutely no big deal.

He supposes it isn't, really, for them. They haven't suddenly and inexplicably woken up three years in the past, and _they_ know exactly what they're talking about. Harry thinks that he probably should be panicking right now, but there's a sort of zen calm that's settled over him somehow as he begins to pick around the room for clothing to wear. Maybe it's all the yoga he's been doing lately, he thinks, like it's some sort of residual effect of the meditation (the calm that's settled over him, that is... not the time travel. He's pretty sure meditation can't cause time travel. Well, he was pretty sure there was _nothing_ that could cause time travel, but here he is, so).

It takes him longer than it ordinarily would to get dressed, because he has absolutely no idea where anything is, and because all the clothes that he can find are either dirty, far too baggy, or just woefully unfashionable, and he spends nearly the whole ten minutes trying to fix his hair in the bathroom mirror without any of his usual products before he realises that there won't be anyone around who gives two shits about what he looks like. Not in August of 2010.

Well.

Isn't that a novelty.

He finally locates his mobile in the pocket of a dirty pair of baggy shorts just as his mum is calling up the stairs that they need to leave to go wherever they're going, and he grabs a pair of sunglasses and a wallet that he supposes are his before leaving the room.

Walking down the hallway, he's struck by how much the house has changed, even in just three years. The furniture is in different places, the walls are different colours, the window hangings are old, and half the photographs that are meant to be on the walls aren't there. Gone are the framed photos of Gemma's uni graduation, the shots from his mum and Robin's wedding, the pictures of Harry and the boys from the Olympics. No framed platinum records, no Brit awards on display, no pictures of Gemma with her boyfriend Liam. And it's stupid, because there are a lot of massive things going on here, but the thing that makes Harry's heart feel like it's going to fall out of his chest, the thing that completely banishes the temporary state of calm, the thing that slams home just how absolutely _fucked_ he is, more than all the rest of it, is when he walks into the kitchen and notices that the photos pinned to the fridge are all of people that Harry barely even recognises anymore.

The front of his mum's fridge has always teemed with life, always been overflowing with an absurd number of printed out photographs, ones that maybe weren't special enough to be framed and fixed to the wall, but ones that she didn't want to just throw into a box and forget about. In his own time, it's covered with photos of Louis and Zayn and Niall and Liam and Lou Teasdale and Lux, baby cousins that he supposes aren't even born yet and all of Gemma's friends from school. Gemma's graduation announcement and a pair of tickets to next June's sold out concert at Wembley, the Save the Date card announcing Harry and Louis' wedding coming up in April and the sonogram snapshot that Gemma had handed to Mum just a few weeks ago as she breathlessly told her she was going to be a grandmother.

All of it's gone.

There are a few photos of Harry's old school friends (Ashley and Will and Ellis and the rest) or of relatives that look younger than he's used to, and there's his X Factor audition sticker, but it's... Well, it's horrible, actually, looking at everything here and realising that all of the most important moments in his life (or at least most of them) haven't even happened.

The room begins to swirl and his stomach churns, and he has to reach behind him to grasp at the kitchen bench to keep himself from falling over and passing out again. There's a shuffle of activity, and then someone's shoving something into his hands and ushering him out the front door and into an SUV, and he just goes with it, just lets himself be moved along, because he doesn't think he can even make himself talk enough to tell them that he needs a minute, that his whole world has just been flipped upside down and inside out, and he's not sure how to make things make sense again.

As the car pulls down the drive and out into the street, Harry bends over double and places his head between his knees like Preston taught him to do when he starts to feel overwhelmed, when he begins to feel it coming on, and he _knows_ what's happening to him, has felt it before during particularly crazy hotel exits or in exceptionally crowded airports. It started to happen once during their performance at Madison Square Garden last year, and it happened for real in Paris just a couple months ago, and he can tell it's coming on again.

It's like a ball forming in the pit of his stomach, growing larger by the second, fuzzy around the edges and making him nauseous, and he's powerless to stop it. His heart rate picks up as he breaks into a cold sweat, his breath coming in sharp gasps and everything turning dizzy and murky around the edges as he starts to fall down, down, down until he's lost himself in his own thoughts, and this is what a drop feels like, and _shit_ he doesn't have any way to claw his way out of it right now. He grasps at the edge of his seat with shaking fingers to try and ground himself, because he needs to get his throat under control enough so that he can tell someone he needs his inhaler, enough so that he can fucking _breathe_ properly even, but then he remembers that he doesn't _have_ an inhaler because the stupid fucking panic attacks didn't start happening until after that one time when he fucked up on Red or Black two years ago, and that hasn't even _happened_ yet, because none of it has happened, and there aren't any medics or body guards around to help him, and Louis isn't here to talk him down, isn't here to place a firm hand around his throat, clenching tightly and cutting off his air supply until Harry knows he's meant to turn over his control, Louis whispering all the while into his ear that he's beautiful and perfect and that things are going to be okay. He doesn't _have_ Louis, not here, not now, not when he needs him the most, and none of it, absolutely _none_ of it is going to be okay.

He's dimly aware that someone is talking to him, but he can't make out the words over the rushing in his ears, can't even _see_ properly because everything has gone blurry. A hand touches his face and he looks up, eyes wild and frantic, and that's Gemma, that's his sister. He knows her; he can trust her.

_Know, trust, good._

He doesn't even care if he sounds completely insane and off his rocker, because he just _needs_ it, needs something, even though it won't be the same because she's not Louis, she won't understand it, but he's able, through his panic, to catch his breath enough to speak.

“Throat,” he gasps out. “Choke.”

“You're choking?” she asks him, and _no_ , but at least he can understand her voice now, and that's a step in the right direction. “Mum, he says he's choking on something.”

Harry shakes his head as much as he can when his whole body is seizing up, trying to tell her that's not what he meant, but she doesn't get it, because why would she, because it's probably so fucked up and weird that she wouldn't even pause to consider it, but it's what he needs right now, whether it's going to make her uncomfortable or not. He reaches up to grapple at her hand with cold fingers, and he pulls it from his face to rest it on his throat, pressing down firmly enough to get the hint across.

She looks bewildered and completely unsure as Harry keeps pressing her hand into his neck, like she thinks she knows what he means but is totally incapable of accepting that's what he's trying to say, unwilling to do it if it's what she thinks it is.

“Choke me,” Harry manages, placing her hand correctly so that she won't crush his windpipe or damage his vocal cords. “Hard.”

Gemma glances over her shoulder toward the front of the car where his mum and Robin are probably shooting them worried looks, but Harry can't even think about that right now, can't even spare a second to process what it might mean for his mum to see him basically asking his sister to strangle him. He doesn't _care_ how wrong it is, because save for his inhaler, it's the only thing that's going to get him to come back down to earth before he passes out or bursts a blood vessel or permanently fucks up his mental state or something.

“Harry, I can't,” she says quietly so as not to be overheard. “Why — “

He presses again at her hand, staring at her with pleading eyes, because he needs this, he really does, he wouldn't be putting her in this position if he didn't, and if this goes on much longer without him getting some kind of relief, he might actually die, or at least that's what it feels like right now.

She stares back at him, clenching her jaw and looking so wildly confused and unsure that it's almost unbelievable before she seems to steel herself, and then she's pressing down against his neck with firm, unrelenting pressure, and Harry's brain whites out.

Dark spots appear in his vision, and there's a brief moment of purely instinctual struggle where he can't help fighting against the loss of air before he gives himself over to it, trusting her enough to know when she needs to stop. The tension falls from his shoulders, and he slumps forward like a ragdoll, his body going slack so that she has no choice but to release his throat in order to catch his shoulders and keep him from crashing into the seat in front of him.

She heaves his body back until he's propped against his seat, and his head lolls onto his own shoulder. He knows that he should probably try to pull it together, but his brain feels like it's moving through molasses right now. Thoughts are coming to him slow and syrupy, and his mouth feels heavy, like maybe it's stuck shut right now, but his breath is coming slow and even and deep, and he thinks, in the back of his mind, that maybe he's okay now? He's not really sure, to be honest, but he's not shaking anymore, and his mind isn't firing on all cylinders and trying to destroy him like it was a few minutes ago.

He still doesn't have a Louis to tell him what to do, though, and that's not very pleasant. Gemma can't be a Louis, because Louis would be petting his hair right now and telling him he's the prettiest girl, and he'd be giving him firm, one-word commands and telling him to _drink_ or _eat_ or _sit_ or _look_. Mostly, though, if they were in a car on their way to do something, Louis would be telling him to _come back up_ , and it's the echo of Louis' voice rattling around through the fog in his head that makes Harry take a deep, shuddering breath and blink his eyes in rapid succession until his mind starts to clear enough for him to pick his head up and look around.

He must not have been making as much of a scene as he thought he was, because Robin's still driving the car down the M56, and his mum keeps glancing over her shoulder with a confused look on her face, but not confused enough that she saw what was actually going on. The only indication that things were actually as bad as he thought they were is the terrified look on Gemma's face as she stares back at him from the row of seats in front of him.

“What the fuck was that?” she hisses at him as he blinks dazedly at her.

It takes him a moment to process her question, and he struggles through the clouds in his head to come up with words.

“Drop,” he says finally, his voice slower and deeper, he supposes, than it normally is. “Fix.”

She blinks at him. “What's that supposed to mean?” she asks, and her voice sounds _angry_. No, no, angry is bad. Louis' never angry with him when he's floating like this, never harsh or mean, and he doesn't ask big questions because he knows Harry can't really understand big ideas when he's like this.

Louis will be angry if Harry doesn't tell him about the drop, though, because Louis always wants to know when Harry goes through one of these, because he needs to take care of Harry and make sure he's okay and make sure he knows he isn't bad for losing himself for a minute, and yeah, Harry really needs to tell Louis what happened.

He fumbles in his pocket for his mobile and actually has it in his hand before he remembers that he doesn't have a Louis to call. The realisation doesn't send him into another panic spiral, but it does make him unspeakably sad, and he sits in the back seat staring numbly at his locked phone for the entire remainder of the hour and a half drive to Sheffield.

By the time they arrive, Harry's come back up fully, but he still hasn't moved from his position, head bowed and staring almost unblinkingly at his phone. He wonders what Louis and the rest of the guys are doing right now. He wonders if they're all stuck in the future and wondering what's going on, or if they've even noticed, or if this Harry, sixteen-year-old Harry, has been transported into nineteen-year-old Harry's body, like if maybe they've switched places or something. What if wide-eyed, confused, soft around the edges, wonder-filled, sixteen-year-old Harry is standing bewildered and terrified in the middle of a lofty hotel suite wondering why there's a naked, sharp-edged, covered-in-tattoos, twenty-one-year-old version of that fit boy from the loo sleeping in the strange bed that he woke up in? What if actual nineteen-year-old Harry is lying in a coma somewhere in an Australian hospital and this is all just in his head? What if he's actually sixteen-year-old Harry, but everything he thinks he remembers (the band, the success, falling in love, taking over the world) was just some sort of extended, horrifyingly realistic fever dream? And most frightening of all:

What if he can't get back?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Adult language; consensual verbal feminisation of a biologically male character; mentions of past crossdressing; brief mentions of past D/s sexual activity (bondage, restricted movement, attention / praise denial); _character experiencing intensely negative psychological effects as a result of a previous lack of aftercare ( **rapid moodswings** , extreme insecurity, feelings of being unsafe, etc.)_
> 
> Okay, upfront, sorry if Harry seems sort of out of character in this chapter. I'll admit that I struggled with his characterisation a bit in this one, but I'm trying to get across the idea that the panic attack / subdrop that happened got him really fucked up since no one took care of him afterwards. I maybe shouldn't explain myself? But I sort of feel like I need to, because I keep rereading this and feeling like he's massively out of character for parts of it, and I _really_ hope it doesn't come across as badly written or something, because there's a reason why it's written that way. So yeah, there's that. 
> 
> Also, I want to say a MASSIVE thanks to [bulletproofhalo](http://bulletproofhalo.tumblr.com) for her [pre-X Factor timeline](http://bulletproofhalo.tumblr.com/post/64960805118/september-2010-lets-talk-about-it). It was super useful for this chapter and also the next two.
> 
> Again, you can find me on tumblr at [sarabritannia](http://sarabritannia.tumblr.com).

Harry's nervous.

No, but like, nervous isn't even a strong enough word to describe how he's feeling right now. Anxious? Confused? Scared, stressed, on edge, tense, uneasy, restless, afraid?

Terrified.

Harry's terrified.

He's terrified, he really is, because he's got no idea what's going to happen when that door opens, no idea what he'll feel when he sees them all for the first time in nearly a week. He's been here a  _ week _ , tripping through shifts at the bakery, practically doing his head in trying not to let on that he doesn't even remember half his old school friends' names, struggling through dinners with his mum and Robin that basically just made him want to scream because everything felt so wrong and unnatural, pretending to these people who he loves that he's someone that he just simply  _ isn't _ anymore.

As fond as he is of saying that he's the same Harry he was before the fame came along, he's realising, the longer he's here, that he really, really isn't.

Some of the changes are definitely for the better, like how much more comfortable he is with himself now than he was at sixteen, how much more clearly he sees who he really is (it had nearly broken his heart when he'd finally managed to unlock his mobile and had found, in his extensive and confusing internet search history, a single phrase that read  _ can boys wear makeup _ ). But some of the changes he's seeing in himself aren't so positive. The uncomfortable surprise that came, for example, when he actually had to pay for his meal at George & Dragon instead of just being given it for free, like he's come to expect, made him realise that he's maybe gotten a bit too used to relying on the recognition of his name and face.

But that's not the point. That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that, after some gentle coaxing and a handful of carefully directed questions to his mum, he'd managed to figure out that he was due for a solid week of bonding time with the boys. And while that's all good in theory, and he has nothing but fond memories of their time getting to know each other at the bungalow years ago, Harry already  _ knows _ them. He already knows all their weird quirks and their secrets, all their annoying habits that he's adapted to after years of basically living out of each other's pockets. He knows them all, inside and out.

But they don't know him.

And he honestly doesn't know what to expect when they arrive, mostly because he can't even really imagine what it'll be like to pretend  _ not _ to know all that stuff.

He needs to... he needs to see them, needs to just get it out of the way, bite the bullet and take one for the team, or maybe something a bit less cliché, Harry doesn't  _ know _ , but he knows he needs them back in his life. A week without any contact whatsoever has made him feel totally off-kilter, like he's missing all his limbs or something. And yeah, like Zayn and Liam and Niall, but mostly Louis. Going without Louis for so long has set his teeth on edge, especially after the panic attack the other day, and not being able to talk to him about it... fuck, not being taken care of at  _ all _ after that happened...

It's not that he's delicate or weak or anything, but drops like that always make him skittish and needy, clingy in a way that he normally isn't, and without anyone to latch onto, without someone to channel that neediness into, his body's been a constant thrum of  _ Louis Louis Louis  _ for days now, itching to talk to him, aching to touch him, longing to just  _ see _ him, for Christ's sake. He knows, at least on some level, that things aren't going to be the same between them as he's used to. He's used to Louis always being in complete control of the situation, always knowing exactly how he wants Harry on any given day, gentle in his commands but firm in his intent, and Harry's role in it all is always,  _ always _ to be taken care of. But this is going to be different. Harry's going to need to be the one in control now, or he's at least going to need to be in control of himself. For the first time in years, he's not going to have Louis to fall back on when he needs guidance, and that's scary.

Terrifying. It's terrifying.

He's been here for hours already, arranging and rearranging things, trying to get it to look exactly how he remembers it looking the first time around. It's not like it'll matter, not really, since the boys haven't actually seen any of this yet, but Harry doesn't want anything off about the way this goes, doesn't want to take any chances at things somehow going differently. This is the place where they'd bonded, where they'd become something more than just a hodgepodge group of boys thrown together on a whim by Simon Cowell and a team of producers. This is the place where, Harry remembers, he'd stutteringly admitted for the first time in his life that he was afraid that he might actually like boys just a little bit more than he maybe liked girls, the place where Zayn, still shy and nervous and closed off, had told them about his upbringing, about the prejudice and the insults that he'd faced growing up poor and Muslim in a city that didn't seem to care very much for either of those things. This is the place where Liam had admitted he was still a virgin, where Niall had comforted him by admitting that he was too, that it was okay.

This is where he'd almost kissed Louis for the first time, jumping naked into the pool on a drunken dare, their bodies sliding together hot and slick in the silent darkness, panting into each other's mouths and struggling to fight against whatever this thing was between them, pulling them down and together even so early on, Louis pushing him away at the last second, muttering something about a girlfriend and broken promises and  _ I'm sorry, Harry, I just can't _ .

They were young in this place, impossibly young, and Harry feels so old now, staring out at the field behind the little bungalow and wondering if that cow from so long ago will make a reappearance tonight to drive them together, scrambling for comfort and protection from an unknown noise in the dark.

He hears the sound of a car door closing out front, and it pulls him from his thoughts, makes his heart stop and restart at double time. He closes his eyes, clenches his teeth, takes a deep breath to steady himself. It's going to be okay. It has to be okay. He'll be fine.

Harry forces himself to move, makes himself put one foot in front of the other and walk towards the front of the house, his hands shaking slightly as he goes.  _ What if it's Louis _ ? What's he going to say to him if it is? What's he going to do? What's it going to be like, having Louis look at him without any of his usual warmth, without love, without even a little bit of fondness? What if Louis pushes him away? What if it doesn't work out this time? What if...?

But by the time he makes it to the main room, the front door is already opening, and Harry catches sight of a blond head of hair, hears a thickly-accented grunt of “Gaddammit!” when the suitcase being dragged through the door drops down to crush a foot, and Harry sighs in relief, the tension dropping from his shoulders.

This is Niall. He can do Niall. Niall's okay. Niall's easy.

Whereas the other boys have changed so much since Harry first met them, calmed down or come out of their shells or learnt things about themselves, Niall's basically always been Niall. Harry can't really remember a time when the Irish boy was anything other than loose and carefree, eager to please and ready with a laugh for everything.

“Hey, Niall,” he says quietly, cautiously, and the other boy freezes in his tracks, whips his head around to look at Harry.

His face breaks into a wide grin as he pushes his sunglasses up his nose, all easy affection and effortless camaraderie, even though this Niall has only known him for three weeks, less than, actually. He gives an awkward sort of half wave, turning back to finish dragging his suitcase through the door, his back arched slightly under the weight of it.

“Hey, mate,” he says cheerfully. “Flight from Dublin was killer, but I'm here now. Made it into Manchester just a couple hours ago.”

It's weird, and it shouldn't feel like this, but dropping back into the rhythm of conversation with Niall is easy, simple, almost like they're no different now than they've ever been. Harry can't help but roll his eyes at the thought of an  _ hour long flight _ from Dublin to Manchester ever being considered 'killer' by any of them, and he suppresses a small smile as he watches the other boy straighten up once he's made it through the door with his unnecessarily large bag. Niall takes his sunglasses off and glances around the room, then fixes his eyes on Harry for the first time since coming inside. He studies him for a second, his eyes narrowing, and he makes a strained noise in the back of his throat. Harry watches as his hand moves forward in an aborted motion then catches himself, pulls his hand back and shakes his head with a scowl on his face. He looks like he's in pain.

“You alright?” Harry asks, raising an eyebrow at him in question, slightly concerned.

“Yeah, I'm just...” Niall says, trailing off, his eyes fixed somewhere above Harry's face. He makes a frustrated gesture in Harry's direction then brings his hand to his forehead. “God, look, I'm sorry, mate, I know I don't really know you, so don't take this the wrong way, but... What in the fuckin' hell is on your head?”

A surprised laugh bubbles up from Harry's chest, and it's all he can do not to hug Niall right then and there. Maybe things haven't changed so much after all. In his own time, he'd gotten so sick of Niall's snide comments about his headscarves that he was probably about ready to punch him if he heard another one (he would've felt awful afterwards and probably bought him a pint to apologise or something, but like... still). Now, though, it's refreshingly familiar to watch this weirdly younger version of Niall struggle against the urge to reach forward and rip the thing out of his hair. Maybe Harry's got some sort of advantage here, since this Niall doesn't know him well enough to be comfortable doing something like that.

“It's a scarf,” Harry tells him, reaching up to adjust it where it's started to slip down his forehead.

Niall looks at him blankly, as if that answers absolutely none of the questions that he has about the thing. “And what could have possibly made you decide to put it on your head?” he asks.

Harry shrugs, grinning widely in spite of himself. He feels lighter than he has in days.

“Dunno,” he says, reaching forward to take Niall's bag from his hand. “I just like it.”

“That is _not_ reason enough,” Niall grumbles, his expression stormy. “I swear t' God, if you start wearing them damn _hats_ , I'm gonna bloody scream.”

There's a beat of silence in which Harry studies Niall carefully, cocking his head to the side.

“Sorry, what?”

Niall stares at him for a moment, pulling the face that Harry knows he makes when he's deeply confused by something, the corners of his mouth drawing down into a slight scowl. “Just said I hate hats,” Niall tells him. “Never really saw the point in 'em.”

Harry laughs, his grin wide and probably at least a little bit stupid looking. He doesn't care, though. Even if everything else is different, it's nice to realise that he can at least know what to expect from Niall. If Harry had a pound for every time Niall made fun of something on his head, he'd be, well, he'd be a damn sight richer than he already is, to say the least. He fights the urge to reach out and ruffle Niall's absurdly long hair, doesn't want to scare him off by being too immediately affectionate.

It's hard, though, pretending not to know Niall.

“Right, yeah, I erm...” Harry says, still grinning and feeling weirdly, deliriously happy. “I was thinking we could just keep our things in the back room, sleep out here? There's only one bed back there, but there's enough sleeping bags for us all to crash on the floor out here.”

Niall shoves his hands in his pockets nonchalantly, nods slightly as he takes in the room around him. “So this is it, huh?” he asks. “This is what you posh English boys call a  _ country home _ ?”

“Guess so,” Harry says, a bit taken aback at first because he doesn't remember things with Niall feeling so effortless at the start. Maybe he just hadn't understood the other boy's sense of humour the first time around. “Want to help me get your bag into the back room? This thing's ridiculous.”

“Oi, you're not the one who had to fly to a different country just to sit around and shoot the shit for a week,” Niall tells him, following close on Harry's heels as they carry the bag between them down the hall. “Mind you, 's not like I had much else to do.”

Harry shakes his head. “I know, right? Things've felt so  _ slow _ ,” he says, because really, that's something Harry's noticed since being here.

Like, yes, time travel, and that's probably something to worry about, but it's also just... He can't believe how much  _ nothing _ there is in this time. What did past Harry even do all day? He's used to his schedules being planned out to the minute, insane travel itineraries, four hours of sleep and a double shot of espresso before 6 AM Bikram Yoga. He's definitely not used to lazing around and just  _ waiting _ for things to happen.

“But I don't know how much sitting around we'll be doing this week,” Harry continues as he and Niall heft the bag into the middle of the large bed. “I've got a feeling Liam'll be on us to get some work done.”

“Yeah, he's a trip, that one,” Niall agrees, pulling a face. “Think he's just shy, though, maybe. Bet we can get him to open up if we get some drink in him.”

Harry bites his lip and laughs at the thought of closed-off sixteen-year-old Liam getting drunk and letting loose. Impossible. It's impossible. “Can't really see that happening,” he admits.

“Probably not, but it's worth a try,” Niall shrugs. “I brought whiskey, and I'm not goin' down without a fight.”

“Right, 'course,” Harry agrees, nodding sombrely. “Can't let him peer pressure you into _not_ drinking. That would just be irresponsible.”

“A man after my own heart,” Niall says, clutching at his chest dramatically.

He throws an arm over Harry's shoulder, pulling Harry close against his side and dragging him back out of the bedroom, digging his knuckles into Harry's hair and, possibly intentionally, upsetting the scarf wound tightly around his head. Harry squawks indelicately and ducks away from his hold, thrown off a bit when he realises too late that he's actually shorter than Niall right now, his normal manoeuvre failing him and sending him crashing into the wall. They both dissolve into helpless giggles, and Harry's just so ridiculously glad to have Niall back. He feels like he hasn't properly laughed in days.

When they round the corner of the hall coming out of the back bedroom, though, Harry feels his laughter die in his throat, and he freezes in his tracks.

There, on the couch, almost as if he's magically appeared, sprung up from the springs and seat cushions themselves, sits Louis, eighteen years old, impossibly thin, skin like a white blank canvas, hair shaggy and curling up at the edges in a loose swoop. The sight sends Harry reeling back into the past, which is stupid because he's  _ living _ in the past right now, but this entire time, the whole fucking time he's been here, been stuck in 2010, the Louis that Harry's been picturing in his head when he imagined what this moment would be like... it's always been  _ his _ Louis that he's seen. Which makes no sense whatsoever,  _ of _ _ course _ past Louis looks nothing like the one that he's used to, of course not, but seeing him here like this, now, looking at  _ this Louis _ , it drives home just how weird and fucked up this situation is.

This definitely isn't his Louis.

It takes Harry a moment to notice that Niall's breezed by him, gone out to the back garden to say hello to Liam and Zayn, who Harry can see have arrived as well, but Harry... he doesn't really care about them right now. And that's maybe sort of horrible, but he's just... His entire world, basically, feels like it's revolving around this stupid,  _ stupid _ boy of his who's sitting on the couch right in front of him but has no idea who he is, not really, not in any important way.

Louis hasn't even noticed Harry yet, standing there in the doorway and staring at him like he's just taken a punch to the chest.

_ Look at me, care about me, recognise me, love me _ , Harry chants in his head, but Louis keeps his attention steadfastly focussed on his mobile, head bowed and feet propped up on the table in front of him, casual as can be.

Harry clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, and Louis glances up, finally meets Harry's eye, but that's almost worse. His expression is impassive and slightly cold as he takes in Harry's posture, anxious and pigeon-toed, shuffling his feet with his hands clasped behind his back, a wavering, hopeful smile on his face, heart pounding in his chest so hard that he thinks Louis  _ must _ be able to hear it, he must. Harry feels a bit like an overeager puppy looking for attention, and the feeling reminds him of those times when Louis would strip him down, tie his hands behind his back and put him on the floor at his feet while he watched football and would pretend to ignore him completely while Harry sucked him off, just to see how far Harry could be pushed before he'd scramble up into Louis' lap to beg for kisses, lipstick smeared and his mouth drawn down into a fierce pout.

Louis would always break at those times, would always laugh and coo and pet at Harry's hair, kissing him gently until he was loose and pliant and happy again. This isn't like that, though. Louis doesn't break this time.

“Can I help you?” Louis asks, one delicately curved eyebrow arching up toward his hairline.

“No, I'm... I'm fine,” Harry says breathlessly, stupidly.

He bites hard at his bottom lip, his fingers knotting behind his back against the urge to reach out and touch. He wants to,  _ needs  _ to, has been feeling this incessant itch building under his skin for the past week, like something's crawled underneath and is fighting to get out, scratching at every inch of him from the inside and making it impossible to sit still. He'd thought it was bad enough when he was suffering through shifts at the bakery and trying to avoid his old school friends, but this...  _ this _ is so much worse. It's like that burning feeling in his chest has intensified until he can barely handle it, and he wants to just collapse into Louis' arms, but this isn't  _ his _ Louis. This isn't the one he's grown and stretched with over the past few years, bending and adapting to each other in ways that Harry didn't even really know was possible before. This Louis is distant, doesn't care, doesn't  _ know _ .

And Harry's suddenly so,  _ so _ tired.

He doesn't sleep well alone, not on the best of nights and especially not when he's been this stressed out and confused, his brain running on constant overdrive trying to figure out what the hell happened and how the fuck he's ever going to get back. And now, whatever tiny sliver of lingering hope he'd had that Louis would somehow recognise him, that things would find a way to be okay... it's like that's gone now, and it's left him feeling empty and deflated. He doesn't want to do anything, really, other than sleep.

The last time he'd spoken to his Louis, maybe the last time he ever  _ will  _ speak to him, they'd been fighting.

The thought makes Harry want to cry out at the injustice of it, makes him want to scream and pound his fists against this Louis' chest, force him to show some kind of emotion. It makes him want to tear at the walls that Louis used to build up around himself, claw them down brick by brick until he forces the real Louis out into the open. It isn't right, it isn't  _ fair _ . It had taken Harry months of constant prodding and encouragement to work his fingers under the tough shell of armour that Louis wears when he's out in the world, had taken him just as long to peel that back and get Louis to let him in. It had taken nearly two whole years of them dating before Harry ever saw Louis cry for the first time, and while he doesn't exactly want to see  _ tears,  _ not if they can be helped, he wants to be with the Louis who trusts him enough to drop the mask and cry if he needs to. They've spent so long together, learning everything that there is to know about each other, all the brightest spots and all the darkest corners, and now Harry has to pretend like he's never known any of it.

He has to pretend like he doesn't know what it feels like to have Louis' hands on his hips, Louis' tongue in his mouth, Louis' heart in his hands, Louis' mind opened up before him.

He has to pretend, incomprehensibly and impossibly, as though Louis is a complete stranger.

+++

Harry was so stupid for thinking he could get through this day without breaking, was such an  _ idiot  _ for believing he could be himself around a Louis that doesn't care and doesn't seem to want him, and it's  _ hard,  _ it is, because Louis' been distant and aloof all day, and Harry can't remember if he was actually like this the first time around and Harry had just forgotten, or if Harry himself did something this time to freak young Louis out, turn him off and push him away, because Louis' being himself, bright and vivacious and exciting, with everyone else, but he's barely spoken two words to Harry since they first saw each other this morning, and it's... well, it's sort of terrible, actually, and it's made Harry hesitant to say anything at all, has made him quiet and reserved all day, sitting and observing more than actually participating while the others have been playing football this afternoon, and he knows, he  _ knows _ this isn't right, isn't how this is supposed to go, and it's tearing at him from the inside, but he thinks, completely irrationally, that if he can just be good enough or obedient enough or somehow  _ Harry _ enough, he'll make this Louis want him just as much as the other Louis did, and it doesn't make sense at all,  _ it doesn't make sense _ , but he just needs, so badly, for Louis to want him, to give him some kind of attention, and his mind's been a jumbled mess all afternoon, has forced him shy and subservient, avoiding confrontation or conversation with anyone, his thoughts focussed entirely on catching Louis' attention, and  _ what if it's _ _ Harry's fault _ , what if he did something wrong, what if he's been bad or undesirable or overeager, what if Louis doesn't want him, what if he can't make this work again, what if he —

“Harry, come hang out,” Louis calls from across the garden. “You've hardly talked to us all day.”

Harry scrambles to his feet so quickly that he goes a bit dizzy with it, and it's all he can do to keep himself upright as he hurries over to where they've just decided to pack up the football, finally.

“Sorry,” he mumbles when he makes it over to them, and his head feels like it's buzzing from the attention, brain knocking around in his skull and screaming at him in excited victory. “Don't like football much.”

“'S alright,” Louis tells him. “We can do something else if you want.”

He throws an arm over Harry's shoulders in what's probably intended to be a casual gesture, but Harry's been starving for contact all day, and he can't stop himself from immediately curling into Louis' side, clingy and needy and so,  _ so _ grateful. It's all he can do to keep himself from burying his face in Louis' neck and whimpering in relief. He doesn't, manages to keep himself in check enough that he doesn't look like a complete nutter, but he does find his fingers tugging helplessly at the hem of Louis' shirt, not in any directed way but just desperately, like a small child begging for sweets.

Louis doesn't seem to mind or maybe just doesn't notice, but he lets Harry twist closer, lets him crowd into his side and just carries on smiling that ridiculous grin of his and talking animatedly with Zayn. Harry plays with the hem of Louis' loose henley, the words being exchanged around him inaudible over the rushing in his ears. He can hear Louis' voice, loud like a beacon, but it's not... he's in a weird sort of headspace right now where he can't totally understand what's being said, because he's focussed, so intensely focussed, on the feel of Louis' arm around him, a warm and heavy weight across his shoulders, and before he realises what he's doing, he's nudging up under Louis' hand, silently begging for  _ more touch _ , hands in his hair or on his face or  _ something _ , he doesn't know, but he just knows he needs something more. His skin feels like it's on fire when Louis indulges him, shifts his arm so that his fingers tangle loosely in the curls at the back of Harry's neck, tugging just slightly, just enough to ground Harry and make him actually feel  _ human _ again for the first time in days.

“Do you want to?” Louis asks suddenly, shaking Harry a bit to get his attention.

Harry blinks up at him stupidly. He hadn't caught a word of that conversation. “What?”

“We're gonna go play FIFA,” Zayn says casually, as though there's nothing off about Harry's behaviour at all. “Still football, but, y'know. Fake.”

“And no chance of falling,” Niall adds. “Or getting hit in the head by a stray ball.”

“I didn't _fall_ ,” Harry protests moodily, frowning and pushing closer into Louis' side.

Niall just rolls his eyes. “You would've done if you'd bothered to play at all,” he says. “Got a feeling you're rubbish at football.”

“Oi, watch it,” Louis snaps, pointing a warning finger in Niall's direction. “If he doesn't like football, he doesn't have to play. Nothing wrong with that.”

And it's so unexpected, catches Harry so off guard, that he actually pulls back from Louis a bit to stare up at him in amazement. This Louis, the one who doesn't even know him at all, the one who probably thinks by now that Harry's some insane person with a penchant for staring creepily and touching inappropriately, the one who's inexplicably tolerating Harry's clinginess is... defending him? This might not be his Louis, might not be the one who knows and actually cares about him, but  _ this _ Louis at least cares enough to stick up for him when Niall pokes fun at him.

Not that Harry  _ needs _ sticking up for, but... well, he sort of does, to be honest, when he's like this. And he didn't expect this Louis to realise that.

“Yeah, I'll play,” Harry says, the boost of confidence suddenly making him feel a bit lighter, a bit less desperate, a bit more like himself and less like he needs to watch every little word he says. “Or if we're doing teams, I could just watch or something.”

“You can be our ref,” Liam offers. “Always need a ref.”

Harry nods, maybe a bit too eagerly, but he's relieved to finally be hitting his stride here. He feels like he's coming out of some sort of weird haze that he's been trapped in since he first saw Louis this morning, and maybe it was just in his head, the whole Louis hating him thing, because it's like he's done a complete 180 in no time flat. He knows it's a fast switch, and he should probably be concerned about how much he relies on Louis' touch and attention and care, but he can't worry about that now. He's got Louis' hands on him again, even if it isn't quite in the way he'd like, but it's a start. It's a start. It's a start.

“I know a lot about football,” he says. “I just can't play it.”

“Two left feet,” Louis comments, and his tone is _fond_ and happy, and it makes Harry want to melt into a puddle of goo.

“Yeah,” Harry breathes, his heart fluttering ridiculously in his chest. “Yeah, guess so.”

And it's okay, it's alright, because even if this Louis couldn't possibly understand what's going on inside Harry's brain right now, he seems to want... he doesn't  _ hate _ Harry, isn't pushing him away, and Harry knows, somehow, that he'll find a way to make things make sense again. Maybe not soon, maybe not completely, but he at least feels a bit like his thoughts are clearing, like he can actually talk to people again, maybe even enough to hold a decent conversation with Niall and Liam and Zayn, enough to win them over so they don't think he's just silent and needy. He's  _ not _ , but he sort of is, but only right now, but at least he's got Louis' arm around him, Louis steering him toward the door as they follow the other boys back inside, Louis guiding him just like Harry needs, and he can do this, he  _ can _ do this, he can  _ do _ this.

+++

The idea of a bonfire was good in theory, but, well, when you mix the irresponsibility of teenage boys with alcohol and flames, there's a fairly good chance you're going to end in disaster. Harry probably should have realised this when Niall pulled out his intimidatingly large bottle of whiskey, but he was too high on the feeling of finally being a little bit close to Louis again, finally feeling comfortable enough in his own skin to actually have a good time with his boys, and they're all loose-boned and happy from the day spent in the sun, even Harry, because he'd spent the majority of the FIFA tournament curled docilely into Louis' side instead of really refereeing, and Louis had  _ let him _ , just wrapped an arm around his body and played sort of wonky and sideways like they've always done, and it felt so much like the old days, like sitting on the tour bus or in a hotel room with his boyfriend and his best mates, that Harry had almost forgotten, actually, that things were unimaginably different.

Now, though... well, it's not like things are  _ different _ , not exactly, because they've all always been a bit stupid when they drink, but Harry's starting to get genuinely worried. Niall's already redfaced and slurring his words, Zayn's gotten to the point of  _ talking about comic books with Louis _ , which is something neither of them ever did when they were this young and insecure, and Liam, well, Liam's not drinking, because of course he isn't, but he's still... somehow, he's still playing along with it all and managing to not look annoyed or frazzled by any of it.

Get sloshed, start a fire, fuck the consequences.

That seems to be the theme of the night.

Harry sighs and shifts in his seat, propping his feet up on the log in front of him as he readjusts the scarf on his head. Niall's only tried to rip it off twice since this morning, which Harry thinks must be some kind of record. Probably because Niall doesn't know him yet, or maybe because he's noticed that there's something off about Harry today. Whatever. Niall can hate the headscarf if he wants, but Harry's still going to wear it.

“Iron Man is _so_ much better than Batman, are you kidding me?” Zayn's saying, rolling his eyes and piercing a marshmallow with a stick with perhaps a bit more force than is strictly necessary. “They're basically the same guy, but like, Marvel comics are way better than DC.”

“Not at all, are you mad?” Liam says, his voice going comically squeaky and surprised. “They're totally different characters! Iron Man's like... an arsehole or something, I don't know, but Batman's definitely better.”

Harry watches as Louis' eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “ _ Liam! _ ,” he says gleefully. “You just said  _ arsehole _ !”

Liam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, smoothing down his ridiculous plastic Bieber fringe. “Yeah? And?” he says, and Harry snorts out a laugh at the thought of this weird young Liam trying painfully hard to act cool and nonchalant.

Louis just shakes his head, his grin wide and happy. He'd always been intent on loosening Liam up at the start, Harry remembers that much. It was like he'd made it his goal in life, pursuing The Corruption of Liam Payne with the same scorch-the-earth mentality that Liam applied to every success milestone that he set his eye on. And it had worked, sort of. Eventually. Not this early on, really, but maybe this is where it started. Harry smiles down at his lap, his cheeks dimpling up as he fidgets with the ragged knot at the back of his head. He'd had to tear the sleeves off an old plaid button-up to make the headwrap. No expensive floral silk scarves in this time.

Harry suddenly feels a hand land on his leg, and he glances up quickly, still fidgety from his near meltdown earlier. Louis' still talking and laughing, gently poking fun at Liam, but he's... his hand's settled against Harry's thigh, high up and curled over to tap out a rhythmless beat against the inseam of Harry's jeans. It's such a casual, nothing sort of gesture, one his Louis has done a million times before. It means  _ hey love _ and  _ I'm here _ and  _ I'm thinking about you _ and  _ how're you feeling _ and  _ I love you _ . It means a lot of things, but mostly it means  _ comfort _ , and Harry feels his breath catch in his throat when he realises Louis' doing it without noticing, almost like he's doing it out of habit, and the other boys don't seem to have noticed anything odd about it at all.

What if...

No, there's no way.

Harry violently forces the thought from his mind before it's even fully formed. He can't let himself start thinking like that. The only reason he's noticing familiar things in this Louis is because  _ this _ Louis is just a younger version of the one that he's used to. They're the same person, really, even if they're worlds apart in time and experience.

“Well, Liam, it's two against one,” Zayn says, shrugging as he turns his marshmallow over the flames. “No arguing with the majority.”

“You two aren't _the majority_ ,” Liam argues petulantly, and Harry's still focussed on the hand on his thigh, fingers now stroking lightly at the fabric of his jeans. “You're just two blokes who decided to team up against me.”

“Well, I'm sorry, Liam, but it is what it is. If you don't like it, then you can just leave, okay? Because, to be quite honest, I've had about enough of your shit,” Louis says, and Harry knows him well enough to know that he's joking, obviously so, doesn't mean it seriously at all, but past Liam was so sensitive and shy and afraid of everything, took _everything_ seriously, that Harry's eyebrows shoot up, attention torn away from his own leg, and he glances nervously at Liam to watch for his reaction.

But Liam just stares at Louis for a moment, shakes his head and laughs, fucking  _ laughs _ . When did young Liam ever  _ laugh _ ?

“You're such a dick, Christ,” Liam says, shaking his head, and that's _really_ weird, okay, even Louis seems to have noticed something strange about it, because his smile falters a bit, just for a split second, but it's enough that Harry picks up on it.

Louis seems to realise then that his hand's attached to Harry's leg, because he moves it away quickly, gaze flickering nervously to Harry's face.

“Sorry,” Louis says to Harry under his breath, and there's... there's something strange about the look in his eye, furtive and guarded, but not guarded in the way the old Louis was guarded. This kind of guarded is the one that Harry's seen thousands of times before during particularly awkward interviews or when they're walking a red carpet and trying to remember to keep their hands to themselves or when Louis' with _her_ , when he's trying to look comfortable and happy but completely, _completely_ failing.

What if Harry's just been so caught up in his head all day that he's not noticed it? What if he's been trying so hard to keep himself in check that he's missed the signs, that...

No, no, no.

“You sure you haven't been sneakin' shots behind our backs, Liam?” Niall asks, and it catches Harry's attention, sort of, but... but he's still got his eyes trained carefully on Louis' face, frowning deeply in confusion as he watches Louis shift awkwardly in his seat, reaching up to smooth his fringe down on his forehead, one arm curling around his own stomach protectively, watches as he licks his lips and tilts his head slightly to the right, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

Harry feels something click in his brain, so suddenly and forcefully that it's almost audible in his mind, like a switch being flicked.

Those are Louis' tells.

That's what Louis looks like when he's nervous or uncomfortable or stressed out about something, when something's on his mind or bothering him, when he's trying to act and thinks he's failing, when he's afraid one of his carefully constructed schemes is about to go wrong. Harry might not know much of anything about time travel or the nature of the universe or the reason why he's even here right now at all, but he  _ does _ know Louis. He knows... fuck, Harry knows basically everything there is to know about Louis, and this... It's a risk. It's probably not... It  _ can't _ be, but... Louis shifts again in his seat, his right hand latching onto his left ring finger to pull at the bare skin in the place where there will be a ring in three years' time, a nervous habit of actual Louis', even when they're in public and neither of them can wear their rings, and...

_ Fuck _ .

“Are you...?” Harry asks, interrupting whoever was just speaking. He doesn't care, really doesn't, because all his attention is focussed on Louis right now, on the frantic pounding of his heart, beating so hard he feels like his body's quaking with it.

“H, what—“ Louis starts, looking at him with a concerned expression, but Harry cuts him off, shaking his head.

“No, no, you never used to call me H. Not this early on,” Harry says insistently.

He glances around at the other boys, and they're staring at him, all gone very quiet. He might look mad right now, maybe, probably, but he knows,  _ knows _ that Louis picked that up from Gemma, started calling him that at first because he thought it sounded funny, and this Louis,  _ young _ Louis... He hasn't met Gemma yet.

“What did you just say?” Zayn asks, his voice faint and distant.

“You heard me,” Harry says, and his gaze is locked on Louis' face, trying desperately to communicate something over the pounding in his head.

There's a prolonged beat of silence in which Harry's mouth goes very dry and he starts to wonder if maybe he was mistaken, starts to ask himself what that's going to mean, starts to plan ways out of it, and he can feel the disappointment edging on his mind, threatening to tear him down, but then...

“ _All of you_?!” Niall bursts out. “You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me. I've been doing my head in all day trying not to let on!”

“Are you?” Harry asks again, desperately, directed at Louis.

Louis nods like he's in a daze, and he opens his mouth to say something, but Harry doesn't care,  _ can't _ care, and he's already out of his seat and falling into Louis' lap, clutching tightly at his shoulders and falling, falling, falling, his hair a complete mess and his words coming out in a nonsensical jumble of  _ LouisloveyouLouisLouisLouLouis _ , but it's okay, somehow, miraculously, cosmically, because Louis' arms are wrapping tight around his waist, hauling him closer, whispering words of love and reassurance and  _ I'm here, princess, I've got you, it's okay, calm down, don't cry, calm down for me baby _ , and when did Harry start crying? When when when? He doesn't remember crying, but there are tears on his face and his eyes are stinging and his breath is coming in short, panicked gasps.

“Harry, calm down,” Louis says firmly, winding a hand through Harry's curls and tugging _hard_. “I need you to breathe for me.”

It's a struggle, but Harry forces himself to take deep breaths, his heart rate slowing to something that might be called normal, and Louis pets at his face, wipes the tears from his cheeks with a gentle thumb.

“That's it,” he says in a soothing voice. “You're okay now, I've got you.”

Harry doesn't speak, just whimpers helplessly, pushing his face into Louis' hand, not sure if he can even make words work the right way anymore.

“Focus,” Louis commands, his voice sharp. “Talk to me, baby girl.”

The endearment forces a dry sob from Harry's chest, and he doubles over, falling limp against Louis's chest, all the struggle gone out of him in an instant.

“ _I thought you were gone_ ,” Harry says in a broken voice, and the last of whatever mask Louis' been wearing all day crumbles.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “I'm here, I love you so much, you're so beautiful. You're okay now, you're alright.”

And there are so many questions running through Harry's mind, so many things that he wants to ask Louis and the other boys, so many things to talk about. But right now, this,  _ this, _ is all that matters. He still doesn't know what the hell is going to happen to them, but he's got Louis and he's got his boys, and he's going to be alright. He's going to be okay. Things are okay.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Adult language; _character briefly experiencing minor negative psychological effects as a result of a previous lack of aftercare (neediness, clinginess, some feelings of insecurity) [less intense than in previous chapters but may still be triggering to some]_ ; explicit sexual content (oral sex, anal sex); some D/s sexual activity (pain kink, verbal commands, restricted movement, character experiencing mild subspace); extensive verbal feminisation; mentions of past crossdressing; mentions of past D/s sexual activity (pain kink, double penetration, bondage [handcuffs]); _brief discussion of past sub drop_ ; mentions of past cheating.
> 
> Alright HERE IT IS. I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update this. Final exams killed me, but that's all over now (and I totally passed everything by the way so go me). Protip — Never take an 18 credit semester in college. Don't. Don't do it. It's the worst idea I've ever had. But _anyway_ updates should be coming a lot more frequently now that I'm finally on summer break. I haven't given up on this story at all. I just got SUPER busy there for a while.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me on this one, and again, sorry this update took so long!
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at [sarabritannia](http://sarabritannia.tumblr.com).

Harry's dimly aware of the other three moving around them, speaking in muted voices and coming over to squeeze Louis' shoulder or ruffle Louis' hair affectionately, but Harry doesn't look up, doesn't move his face from where it's buried in Louis' neck. Now that he knows that these are actually _his_ boys, the ones who know most of the weird, intricate details of this tangled thing between Harry and Louis, he trusts them enough to know to follow the rules.

There are rules that go along with this, after all, and top of the list is that, when Harry's like this, no one is to touch him or speak to him other than Louis. They'd figured out fairly early on that Harry's far too open to suggestion when he's in any sort of delicate state, and it's just not a good idea for him to be so vulnerable like that with people who don't fully understand what's going on in his head, with people who _aren't Louis_.

Harry doesn't know exactly how long it is before he makes a small noise and shifts in Louis' lap, sniffling into his skin, but Louis' arms tighten around his body automatically when he does, turning to press his lips lightly to the crown of Harry's head even as he continues to nod and laugh softly with Liam. The vibrations in his chest soothe the last of Harry's tears, and he reaches a hand out absently, petting at the inch or so of exposed skin where Louis' shirt's ridden up. He makes a small, content noise and turns his head to rest the side of his face against Louis' shoulder. Louis smells differently to what Harry's used to, different soap and detergent and cologne, but the way he curls around Harry protectively in their seat is all familiarity and comfort and love, and it makes Harry feel warm and cared for. It makes him feel safe, probably for the first time in over a week.

“Hello again,” Louis says quietly when Harry finally resurfaces, blinking glassy eyes and nudging his hand against Louis' until their fingers lace together loosely. “You okay?”

“Think so,” Harry says. His voice is a bit deeper than normal, and he's still speaking fairly slowly, but his thoughts are coming to him clear and lucid now and his heartbeat has evened out to a normal rhythm. He's okay. “Sorry about... y'know. That.”

He wants to explain himself, wants to tell Louis about the drop and what happened in the car with Gemma and everything that's been running through his head since, but this just isn't the time. He thinks Louis probably knows, because Louis always seems to know, but it's still something they need to talk about at some point. Sooner rather than later, honestly, but not with the other three boys watching their interaction so closely and waiting for Louis to give them the all clear.

Louis tuts and shakes his head, reaching forward to move a lock of hair off Harry's face. “Don't apologise,” Louis tells him, as if it's the most ridiculous idea in the world. “You've got nothing to be sorry for. Let me get a look at you, though. Make sure you're alright.”

He wraps a gentle hand around Harry's chin, angles his head so he's forced to meet Louis' gaze, and Louis studies his face for a moment carefully until Harry rolls his eyes and fidgets out of his grasp with a huff of _honestly, Lou, I'm not a child._ Louis' face breaks into a fond smile then, and he laughs under his breath as he squeezes Harry's fingers where their hands are still tangled in his lap.

“Alright, no need to get snippy,” he says, leaning forward to press a grinning kiss to Harry's temple. “You need anything? Water? Food?”

Harry's shoulders sag a bit with relief at the idea of actually being taken care of again, a deep feeling of contentment settling in his chest, and it's just so _good_ to have Louis back. “No, I'm fine,” he says, shaking his head slightly and smiling. “I do love you quite a lot, though. In case I'd not said it yet.”

Louis grins and sways forward for a kiss, and it's... well, they keep it pretty PG, mostly because they're not trying to put on a show for the other boys or anything, but it's still perfect and natural and soft, and even though the angle's weird and slightly off because their bodies are proportioned differently right now and Harry's suddenly smaller and curled into Louis' lap, it... basically, it feels like coming home. Harry can't help but sigh into it when Louis bites at his bottom lip with sharp teeth, smiling against his mouth and pulling back just enough to whisper _I love you too_ , soft and private so only Harry can hear the words.

He wants to stay like this, doesn't want to ever move, honestly, but he knows there are three other boys waiting anxiously behind him, angling for a chance to greet him properly, and Harry grins in spite of himself when Louis pulls back fully and nods to the others, beckoning them over wordlessly. It only takes a few seconds before they're being tipped forcefully out of their chair and onto the ground into a dogpile of five. Harry sort of wishes he could have Louis to himself for a moment longer, just so they can get a chance to, well, to catch up _properly_ , but the time for that will come soon enough. Right now, it's all about having _all_ his boys back, no matter how overeager any of them might be.

+++

“Well,” Niall says once they're all finally settled in the big living room of the bungalow some time later, “I guess we don't have to fake our way through a round of Never Have I Ever like last time, then.”

“Niall, is that seriously what you're worried about here?” Liam asks, sounding exasperated. He's still got dirt on his face from rolling around in front of the fire during their impromptu pseudo wrestling match, and there are more than a few leaves stuck to the back of his shirt. “What about how the hell did we all end up here in the first place? Think that might be something to talk about?”

Niall just shrugs, his shaggy hair curling around his ears, and Harry laughs to himself at the thought of how appalled Lou Teasdale would be if she could see the scraggly, grown out highlights that he's got right now. If she could see any of them, honestly. Loads of money and an army of stylists have done them wonders. They all look a mess right now, even Zayn.

Harry feels a hand land low on his back, small fingers working their way under the hem of his shirt, and he glances over to find Louis grinning down at him. Harry smiles back and leans into the touch, curling into Louis' side and resting his head down against the other boy's shoulder. He still can't get over the fact that he's somehow, impossibly, got Louis back. It had taken several very long moments for Harry to be coaxed away from Louis, even after they were tipped from their chair and onto the ground, because he really hadn't wanted to let go. He wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't dreaming, and he still can't totally wrap his head around it, if he's being honest. Just an hour ago, he was trying to make himself be okay with the idea that he'd likely _never_ get his version of Louis back, that he'd have to start from scratch with all of it.

But now he's got actual Louis, right at his fingertips. He's got all of them, somehow.

“What if we like, fell through a wormhole or something?” Zayn's saying as he pulls one of the big tasselled pillows off the couch and into his lap, hugging it tightly to give himself some amount of comfort. “Like in Sliders or whatever.”

“No, man, this is totally Days of Future Past,” Louis tells him. “I mean, I've been working it out in my head, right? Like, think about it. The world's about to end, yeah, and so they send Kitty Pryde's mind back in time to her younger body so she she can change the future and make everything better, you know? She uses, like, all the stuff she knows from the future to change things in the past. And, _and_ , the future in that storyline is 2013. So... obviously.”

“Why didn't I think of that?” Liam says, clapping a hand to his forehead. “That makes so much sense!”

“Because you somehow seem to believe that DC comics are better than Marvel, Liam,” Louis tells him in a tone so patronising that Harry can't help but snort out a laugh from where he's sitting. “That's what happens when you prefer Batman over Iron Man.”

“Okay,” Zayn says slowly, frowning like he's trying to work something out. “But like, how are we supposed to save the world? Things weren't exactly apocalyptic in our real time.”

Louis shifts in his seat, biting his lip. “Well, not _all_ the details fit,” he allows, “but that comic was written in the eighties, so maybe they just didn't know the whole story yet. Or something.”

Niall shakes his head and swallows the mouthful of popcorn he'd just started chewing. “No, okay, let's take a break from Nerds on Parade here. We're not living in a damn comic book,” he says.

“What, do you have a better theory then?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Niall waffles for a moment, looking lost, and he pulls a face. “I dunno. I'm not the only non-nerd here,” he says finally. “Ask Harry.”

The other three all turn to look at Harry expectantly. Oh, right. Cheers, Niall.

“Erm... yeah, I'm not so convinced that we're suddenly X Men?” Harry says awkwardly, fidgeting against Louis' side. “Doesn't really make sense to me.”

“Well, we _were_ on X Factor, to be fair,” Zayn says, not even missing a beat as he dodges the handful of popcorn that Niall throws at him.

“No, wait, are you serious?” Louis asks, pulling away a bit more so he can stare down at Harry properly. “You're not backing my side? Worst spouse of all time.”

“Thanks,” Harry says drily. “No, I mostly mean like... Why does it have to even be like a comic book? It's not like Chris Claremont or whatever knew anything about actual time travel. He was just writing a story.”

Louis' expression changes immediately to one of surprised delight, and his mouth drops open comically. “You know who wrote Days of Future Past?” he asks gleefully, his eyes sparkling. “I take it back, you're the _best_ spouse. You just earned yourself the right to give me a kickass blowjob. Congratulations.”

“ _Score_ ,” Harry says sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he accepts Louis' high five. Louis pulls him closer and bends to press an exaggerated kiss to the crown of his head.

“Great, now I actually _am_ the only non-nerd,” Niall grumbles disappointedly. “Time travel's changed you, bro.”

“No, being forced to listen to Louis and Zayn bicker about comic books for the last three years has changed me,” Harry says, laughing and shoving half-heartedly at Louis where he's started to kiss down his neck. Harry doesn't really mind all that much, but he feels like he should maybe put up a bit of a fight, even if it's just for show.

“Well, I like the comic book theory,” Liam says, as though that decides everything. “What are we supposed to do to save the world, though?”

“Maybe not save the world,” Zayn says. “But maybe we're supposed to like, save ourselves? Change things we don't like?”

“What would we change, though?” Niall asks. “I like our lives.”

“Um, I don't know, Niall. Maybe the fact that they put our faces on toothpaste?” Liam says. “Not too keen on that, if I'm being honest.”

“Or like, the whole not-being-taken-seriously-as-artists thing. That would be nice,” Harry adds.

“Aww, baby Hazza wants to be in a pretentious indie band,” Louis coos, finally giving in and detaching himself from Harry's neck.

“Shut up,” Harry grumbles. “Now you're not getting that blowjob.”

“I'll find a way to earn it back,” Louis says confidently, nodding to himself. “That would be sick, though, if we could get people to stop treating us like the fucking Wiggles or whatever.”

“Yeah, imagine,” Niall says, rolling his eyes. “Would it be morally wrong or somehow illegal if we just, like, pretended like we actually wrote all our songs? Like, from the beginning?”

“What, just claim rights to shit?” Zayn asks. “That would screw a lot of people out of a lot of fucking money. I don't wanna be that arsehole.”

“I mean, they wouldn't _know_ , not really. Since they haven't actually written any of it yet,” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head, frowning at the thought. “No, okay, I'm with Zayn on this one,” he says. “We can't just screw Savan and all the rest of them out of, like, millions of pounds. That would be fucked up.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” Louis sighs. “Would be nice, though. I mean, it's not like we don't know how to write music. Me especially, by the way. In case you'd forgotten”

“Yes, Louis, we know,” Zayn sighs, rolling his eyes. “You wrote the whole damn new album. We're all bowing down to you and that. You can give it a rest.”

Louis spreads out the arm that's not curled around Harry, his hand clenching into a victory fist. “I'm the king of songwriting. It's why they named a whole town after me.”

“For the last time, Louisville is not named after you, you twat,” Niall says, and Harry laughs at the exasperated look on the blond boy's face.

“Well, when we finally play a gig in Niallville, then we can have a chat,” Louis tells him. “Until then, you can just – ”

“Okay, stop, we get it,” Harry laughs, pushing at Louis' head to get him to shut up. Louis takes an exaggerated fall to the floor, releasing Harry and letting his head land heavily on Liam's thigh. “There's no Niallville or Harryville or whatever. Let's talk about time travel.”

“Right, time travel,” Zayn says, nodding at Harry gratefully. “I say we figure out a way to give ourselves the careers we always wanted.”

“You don't think we should try to get back?” Liam asks, his arm falling naturally across Louis' body. “Figure out a way to reverse it or something?”

“I don't know,” Zayn says, shrugging and hugging the pillow closer to himself. “I mean, the thought's crossed my mind, obviously, but what if we're here for a reason? Like, aren't there things we all want?”

“I want things to be better for me and Harry,” Louis says quietly, his tone suddenly gone serious as he picks at a loose thread on the leg of Liam's jeans, carefully avoiding eye contact with the rest of them. “Not like, come out right away, probably, but... I don't want us to have to go through all that shit again. We barely made it last time.”

Harry's hand loops around Louis' bare ankle, and he holds on tight, swallowing thickly around the lump that seems to have suddenly formed in his throat. He knows what Louis' talking about, knows exactly which time he means, and his heart pangs at the memory of how close they'd been to giving up on each other for a while there, nearly a year ago now. That mess with Taylor had certainly taken a toll on them, and Harry had been forced to break a pretty serious contract to get them back on track. Cutting things short on that deal had cost him several million pounds in legal fees, but... well, obviously it was worth it. There's no amount of money in the world that could ever make him choose something else over Louis.

“I just... I want us to be happy?” Louis continues, shaking his head. “I don't know, it's stupid, but like, if we could avoid all the fake girlfriends and everything, that would be... nice.”

“It's not – “ Harry starts, his voice catching in his throat. He breaks off and coughs, fingers tight around Louis' leg like an anchor. “It's not stupid.”

Louis lifts his head up off Liam's lap to peer over at Harry, his eyes unsure. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Of course, Lou,” Harry tells him, his face breaking into a fond smile. “You just earned that blowjob back. In case you were wondering.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis says, pumping his fist in the air once. “Knew that would work.”

“You're such a prick, oh my God,” Harry laughs, but his heart feels like it's swelling ten sizes in his chest when Louis grins and winks at him. He knows Louis actually meant all that, obviously, even if he does try to hide his cheesy side around the other boys. They all know how much of a sap he really is.

“I want that too, though,” Niall chimes in, grinning at them like a fond grandmother or something. “I want you guys to be super happy. You fuckin' deserve it after all the shit you've been put through. You're like, the coolest couple I know.”

“Aww, thanks, Niall,” Harry says, reaching over to wrap Niall in a hug that's really more half-noogie than anything else. “No one's ever called me cool before.”

“Well, if you keep wearin' them damn headscarves, no one'll ever call you cool again,” Niall grumbles, even as he accepts the affection easily. “I know you're going for Springsteen, but you just wind up lookin' like Nick Jonas.”

Harry considers for a moment, shrugging. “He's fit, sort of,” Harry allows. “I'll take it.”

“Oi!” Louis protests, pushing his foot into Harry's leg. “I just bared my fucking soul over here and you're talking about how fit the Jonas Brothers are? You're the worst, Jesus.”

“Alright, 'I'd suck Beckham's cock even if he didn't ask me to,'” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “ _Please_.”

“Why is everything with you two always so gay?” Liam asks, shaking his head.

“I don't know how to break this to you, Liam, but, Christ, this is awkward,” Louis says in a put-on sympathetic tone. “Harry, will you take this one? Young Liam here doesn't seem to understand a key point in our relationship.”

“Well, you see, Liam,” Harry says, picking up the joke right away and putting on his best Dad Voice. “When two boys love each other very much – “

“Oh, fuck off,” Liam says, pushing Louis' head from his lap. “I hate the both of you.”

Louis pulls himself up to sit, laughing and reaching over to ruffle Liam's hair. It somehow devolves into a shoving match that leaves Liam ducking out from under Louis' hands, sending them both sprawling into a heap on the floor, limbs tangled and panting heavily, swatting at each other half heartedly.

“Oh, not this again,” Niall grumbles, turning to where Harry's watching them struggle with slightly judgemental eyes. “How do you put up with him?”

Harry sighs and frowns as he considers the two boys rolling around on the floor. “He has his moments,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Fighting's just not his strong suit.”

“'S a bit pathetic, if I'm being honest,” Zayn offers. “Both of them. They'd be rubbish in an actual fight.”

+++

It's several hours later before they've all finally calmed down enough to talk about something besides just time travel. Zayn and Niall are locked in some sort of epic Halo battle, Niall with a beer perched precariously between his fidgeting feet and Zayn leaned back against the couch with the controller propped against his knees. Liam's just watching from the couch, shouting out bits of advice to both of them, back and forth, not really caring who wins as long as he gets a turn sometime soon.

And Harry, well, Harry can't seem to focus on much of any of it, not with Louis working his mouth over the line of Harry's throat in a not-so-discreet show of affection.

“Will you stop?” Harry asks him in a whisper once he's sure the other boys are well and truly distracted. They've all been talking louder than necessary and pointedly avoiding looking in Harry and Louis' direction, so he knows that they _know_ , but he feels like he should maybe try to be at least a bit courteous. “At least wait until we're alone.”

“Don't want to wait,” Louis argues in an undertone, his hand drifting lower on Harry's back. “Waited long enough. I want you to suck my cock.”

Harry feels an involuntary shudder run through his body at the words, and he swallows thickly as he adjusts himself under the blanket that's sitting over both their laps. If there's one thing that he's noticed about being sixteen, it's that his whole body feels like it's on fire basically all the time. He'd probably be embarrassed right now if it weren't for Louis determinedly working his fingers under the back waistband of Harry's jeans. It's just... It's more than what he was feeling earlier today, when he was happy to soak up even the smallest gesture of affection from Louis.

This feels different to that, feels more like the times when he'd come home after a week in LA or some crazy stupid solo trip to New York, and Louis would jump him as soon as he walked in the front door of their house, pin him to the wall in the entry way and just _go for it_. Harry knows they should probably go a bit slower with this at first, maybe, just because their bodies aren't used to each other in the way that older Harry and Louis' bodies were, and they should probably honestly take a bit more time to just _be,_ to just hang around with the boys and be grateful that they're all back together again for real. But at the same time...

“We'll be right back,” Harry says suddenly, interrupting Liam's shouts about grenades and sniper rifles.

“Wha – Oh, c'mon, guys,” Niall groans, still not taking his eyes off the screen even as Harry stands and reaches down to pull Louis to his feet. He blasts an alien to pieces and lets out a little shout of victory. “Can't you hold off for like a few hours at least? Jesus.”

“We really will be right back,” Louis tells him, laughing as Harry gets hold of his hand and starts to drag him towards the back bedroom.

“Ten minutes, tops,” Harry calls over his shoulder just before the door to the bedroom swings closed behind them.

Louis swats at his bum affectionately and pulls him in close with an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. “Oi, I can last longer than ten minutes, you twat,” he mutters, already busy sucking a mark into the column of Harry's throat. “You should know.”

“Come on,” Harry scoffs, gasping and threading his fingers through the fine hairs at the back of Louis' neck and reaching down to palm him hot and heavy through his loose chinos. “I remember what you were like when you were eighteen. No staying power at all.”

“You're one to talk,” Louis counters, already working the zip of Harry's jeans down with a fumbling hand. “Miss 'I came untouched before he could even get it in our first time'.”

Harry hisses sharply when he feels Louis' hand wrap around him, his jeans shoved down just enough to get his cock out. “Still – _fuck_ – still let you fuck me after,” he says, biting down hard on one of Louis' collarbones and squeezing his eyes shut to keep himself together when Louis scrapes his thumbnail over Harry's slit, gritting his teeth at the snap of pain that runs through his body.

“Mmm, I remember,” Louis says, winding his fingers through Harry's curls and tugging sharply enough that Harry's brain whites out for a split second, just long enough that he fucking  _ knows _ he's not going to last at all if Louis keeps it up. “Such a good girl for me, even back then.”

And it's... Harry knows Louis' going to make fun of him later for being so eager, probably, but  _ shit _ , he's been basically gagging for it for a week now, all that pent up energy and stress building up inside him, and he can't keep it in any longer. He's already dropping to his knees before he really knows what he's doing, a high-pitched whine building in the back of his throat, and he just  _ needs _ , so badly. Something.

Louis cards his fingers through Harry's hair and raises his eyebrows as he looks down at him. “Yeah?” he asks quietly. “Is that what you need, princess? You want it like that?”

Harry just groans, and he can feel it starting to edge in on him already, even like this, even with Zayn and Liam and Niall bickering over Halo in the next room and Louis barely doing anything at all to put him there, not even trying to do it really, but there's been a lot of shit going on in Harry's head lately and it's making everything feel bigger and way more, impossibly more intense.

“Harry, I need you to talk to me,” Louis tells him in a warning tone, hand cupping the back of Harry's head gently. “Remember your rule?”

Harry swallows roughly and takes a deep, shuddering breath, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he stares up at Louis. “Always use words,” he recites after a moment.

“Good girl,” Louis says, letting his hand fall from Harry's head to thumb over his swollen lip instead, and Harry shudders at the contact or the praise or maybe both, his eyes falling closed again briefly. “Now tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“ _ Lou _ ,” he whines again, sounding desperate and needy even to his own ears as he pushes up into the touch. “Want to be a good girl for you.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks again, and Harry can see the expression on his face changing in real time, his tone of voice already taking on an edge of authority. “Get your hands behind your back for me then, love. Show me how good you can be.”

Harry moves his arms so quickly that he almost loses his balance with it, and he clasps his hands behind his back obediently, fingers twisting together until his knuckles turn white against the urge to reach out and touch. His mouth drops open without Louis even telling him to, tongue laying flat over his row of bottom teeth, his hooded eyes lowered and focused on a spot somewhere near Louis' feet. He hears the zip of Louis' jeans being dragged down, and a shiver runs through him in anticipation when he feels a hand wrap around his chin, angling his head up more.

“Look at me, baby girl,” Louis says. “Keep your eyes on my face, okay?”

Harry's gaze snaps up to meet Louis' immediately at the command, his hands balling into fists behind his back when Louis presses his thumb into the hinge of Harry's jaw to get his mouth to open up further

“Just _look_ at you, god,” Louis says reverently, thumbing over Harry's lip again. “So _young._ You're so fucking beautiful.”

Harry squirms under his gaze a bit, because it's _intense_ , it's really fucking intense, like Louis' looking at him with literal stars in his eyes right now, and Harry doesn't really know what to do with that. His head feels like it's swimming with it, his mind a jumbled mess focused completely on _Louis,_ and he can't help the broken moan that comes from his mouth when Louis finally taps the head of his cock against Harry's tongue. It takes all the restraint he has in him not to lean forward and take it completely into his mouth, but he manages to keep himself in check. Louis hasn't told him he can let go yet.

“Good girl,” Louis says again, his voice soothing as he runs a hand back through Harry's curls, pushing hair out of his face. “Want you to suck me off now, love. Keep your hands behind your back for me, though, okay? Think you can do that?”

Harry nods silently, his entire body drawn tight, and he's practically shaking with it, fuck. Louis pushes his cock further into Harry's mouth, hand settling on the back of Harry's head as unspoken permission for him to close his mouth, and Harry does so eagerly, sinking down quickly as far as he can go, struggling to keep his eyes open and trained on Louis' face. It's a bit different than he's used to, can't take Louis all the way down like he normally can, his throat closing up tight and resisting him when he tries to take in too much at once. He supposes that he'll have to work his gag reflex out again just like he did last time, which is a bit annoying, but he's more than willing to spend the necessary time practising.

The weight of Louis' cock in his mouth is all familiar, though, same taste and shape and everything, and he groans around it when he feels the taste of precum spreading across his tongue, bitter and salty at once. He bobs his head a few more times, pulling off briefly to run his tongue along the vein on the underside, just like Louis likes, before taking it back into his mouth to press his tongue into the slit.

If there's one thing that Harry Styles knows how to do, he knows how to give excellent head, and judging by Louis' groans above him, this time is no different.

“Shit, Haz,” Louis hisses, thumb running along the corner of Harry's mouth where it's stretched around his cock. “Always look so pretty with a cock in your mouth. Like you were – _fuck_ – like you were fucking made for it.”

Harry whimpers around Louis' cock, and he feels Louis stiffen where he's standing against the wall, his hand clenching tighter in Harry's hair and his face taking on an expression that looks almost pained.

“I'm close,” he grits out, a muscle working tightly in his jaw. “So good for me, fuck.”

Harry doubles his efforts, stopping to suck at the head when he can tell Louis' dangling right on the edge, and it only takes a few seconds before Louis' coming with a cut off shout, his fingers pulling relentlessly at Harry's hair as his cock pulses hotly against his tongue.

Louis pulls out of his mouth once Harry's worked him through it, and he slides down the wall bonelessly to sit on the floor in front of him, his eyes fallen shut and his long hair hanging in his face. It takes a moment for him to collect himself, but when he opens his eyes, Harry's still on his knees in the same spot, staring at Louis with his mouth shut and his hands clasped obediently behind his back, his neglected cock still bobbing hard and heavy in front of him.

“Lemme see, princess,” Louis says quietly, reaching forward to get a hand around Harry's chin, and Harry parts his lips carefully, cupping his tongue to help keep the come in his mouth. “Good girl. Swallow.”

Harry closes his mouth and swallows gratefully, a whimper escaping his throat when he feels Louis suddenly wrap a hand around his cock again without warning. He tries desperately to keep his arms behind his back, but he loses his balance and one of his hands shoots out on reflex, catching himself against the wall as he slumps forward into Louis, pressing his forehead against the other boy's shoulder, gaze trained carefully on the slide of Louis' hand over his cock.

“I want you to come for me, baby girl,” Louis mutters, his lips pressed tight against Harry's ear. “You were so good for me. Want you to come, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Harry babbles, not even knowing what he's really saying anymore.

Louis twists harshly at the base of Harry's cock, and that's it, he's coming undone in basically record time, and his face burns as he shoots off long ropes of come into Louis' hand and over his hip, his breath coming in short gasps. Louis scoops some of it up with his fingers and taps them against Harry's lips, and Harry opens his mouth without a word, just lets the fingers be pushed into his mouth. His breathing slows gradually as Louis presses words of praise and love into his skin, kissing down his throat and rubbing soothing hands over his back and through his hair, pushing Harry's shirt up as he goes.

“Babe, you with me?” Louis asks after a very long moment, pulling back to place a hand on Harry's cheek, angling his head until he's forced to make eye contact again. “Need you with me.”

Harry blinks slowly, swipes his tongue over his swollen bottom lip as he thinks. “Green,” he says, his voice coming out as a barely-there whisper.

“Sweetheart, I need you to come back, okay?” Louis tells him, petting at his hair again. “Green's really good, but I need you to be Harry for me again.”

Harry shakes his head stubbornly. He's not totally ready to come out of it yet. He feels safe here, wanted, loved, taken care of. It's not normally this easy for him to fall so far into it, doesn't usually happen unless Louis spends at least an hour carefully working him into this different sort of headspace, but he's been on edge since he woke up in his mum's house nearly a week ago, skittish and sensitive after the drop and itching to be pulled under.

“'M love you,” Harry says slowly, blinking up at Louis, doe-eyed and completely vulnerable.

“I love you too, baby girl,” Louis says softly, bending to press a light kiss to Harry's forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment. “Babe, I need you to come back up though, okay? Can you do that for me, love? Come back up.”

Harry takes a deep breath, curling into Louis' touch, and he lets out a little whine, his eyes falling shut as Louis continues to whisper encouraging things into his ear ( _that's it, be a good girl for me, come back up for me baby, come on princess_ ). And it's hard, it _is_ , because Harry doesn't _want_ to come out of the floaty space, doesn't want to leave the safe place where everything's beautiful and perfect and calm and _Louis._ He doesn't want to have to come back to the real world, and there's a whimper building in the back of his throat as he fights against the clarity that's starting to inch back to him. No, no, no, he wants to stay here, doesn't want to leave, but Louis' voice breaks through the haze in his mind, tells him firmly, gentle and sweet but _firm_ , that he needs to come out of it, that he can't drop off too far, not here, not right now.

“ _Lou_ ,” he whines, his fingers grappling at Louis' back, tugging at the thin material of his T Shirt, hands shaking, breath shuddering in his chest.

“I'm right here, love, it's alright, I've got you,” Louis says, whispering quietly with his lips pressed tight against the shell of Harry's ear. “I've always got you, you're so good for me, come on.”

It takes a moment for Harry to open his eyes again, the flush spreading across his cheeks and down his chest, his breath coming in short little bursts, and he blinks dazedly up at Louis.

“Can you hear me now?” Louis asks, cupping Harry's face in both hands and sitting back a bit so he can see him properly. “Talk to me, babe. What day is it?”

Harry thinks for a minute, bites at his lip and sucks in his cheeks. “No idea,” he admits, his cheeks dimpling up on one side. “No fucking clue.”

Well, yeah, makes sense, everything's a bit out of whack right now, of course he doesn't know what day it is, but if he's back enough to say something like that, then that means he's fine, he's okay, he's himself again. Louis shakes his head, his eyes crinkling up with a grin, and he laughs as he bends to kiss Harry properly.

“Yeah, me neither,” Louis tells him. “This whole thing's got me so fucked up.”

And if Harry's still a bit spacey and withdrawn when they finally rejoin the boys in the main room, both of them blushingly avoiding the catcalls and wolf whistles that accompany their return, well, the others are used to them by now anyway.

+++

The next few days pass by quickly and easily, all of them caught up in a happy blur of actually being together again. They're basically treating the whole thing like an extended holiday, spending long afternoons lounging around in the sun and somehow figuring out a way to stage fierce five-man chicken matches in the pool. They're the sort of days that make Harry want to drink cold lemonade and listen to American country music or something, he doesn't know, but he can't help but feel a little twinge in the back of his mind, like this is what Australia was supposed to be like, falling into bed with Louis after long days spent soaking up sun, their skin warm and tinged brown under each other's hands, mouths sliding over each other lazily.

Harry finally tells Louis about the drop on their second day at the bungalow, shy and stumbling over his words, nervous and fidgety, and it suddenly makes him realise why Louis always insists on knowing about it immediately after it happens. Louis hugs him for a long time after, just wraps his arms around him and holds him so tight that Harry's worried he might actually crush his ribs or something.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis breathes, arms tightening around him. “Love, why didn't you tell me sooner? God, I – fuck, Harry, you're... _no wonder_ you were such a mess the other day, shit. When did it happen?”

“Week ago,” Harry says quietly, turning to bury his burning face in the skin of Louis's neck. “Thought you were gone.”

Louis' arms tighten even further around Harry's body, and Harry feels him swallow thickly. “A _week?_ Holy sh – Oh my god, I'm so sorry, princess,” Louis says, sounding unbelievably guilty. “Tell me how to fix this, okay? How can I make it better? Fuck, I... shit, if there was... like if I'd _known_ , I would've – god _dammit_.”

“I'm okay,” Harry breathes, pressing his face further into Louis' skin. He wasn't, really, not for a long time and not for the entire first day, but he finally started to feel like _himself_ again once he realised he was going to be okay, that he didn't have to try to live this confusing mess all on his own. “I've got you back now, so like.”

“I love you so much,” Louis tells him in a fierce whisper. “Please, just... _god_ , Harry, I can't believe you had to go through that alone.”

Harry just shakes his head and shuffles even closer to Louis, snuffling into his skin and pushing up under his hands, happy to just feel close to him again. He can't seem to get enough of Louis now, not after being so sure he was gone forever and then going through the up-and-down roller coaster of getting him back.

And it's cheesy and so ridiculously sentimental, but Harry actually gets choked up with emotion when Louis fucks him for the first time, in the back bedroom on the third night, and he realises, confusing as it may be, that Louis' taking his virginity for the second time. Even though Louis rolls his eyes and scrunches up his nose in distaste when Harry makes him call it _making love_ , Harry just threads his hands through Louis' hair and pulls him down over him, panting hot breaths into each others mouths, staring into each other's fucking _souls_ it feels like, and... Harry's not sure what, exactly, it does feel like, but Louis nuzzles at his nose and closes the gap between their lips until they're kissing each other open-eyed, because somehow they defy biology or physics or astronomy or _something,_ and they're connected enough right now that they can _do that_ , maintain eye contact as their tongues slide together, and wow, Harry's not sure how he ever manages to leave the bedroom, honestly, when he's got _this_ as an alternative.

“I fucking love you so goddamn much,” Louis mutters into his lips, and Harry huffs out a laugh through his nose, reaching up to tangle their fingers together above his head. “So fucking beautiful.”

Harry remembers their other first time (their  _actual_ first time), in a hotel room in Los Angeles on their first trip to America, barely a month after the end of X Factor. He can remember exactly how nervous he'd been, but also, somehow, how absolutely certain he was that he wanted to give himself to Louis like this. He hadn't cared that Louis had a girlfriend at the time, didn't care that he was technically the tempting seductress in the scorned-woman scenario, didn't give a shit that he was probably a horrible person for fucking some other girl's boyfriend. All that he cared about was  _Louis_ , and, now that he thinks about it, that's all he's ever really cared about since the moment Louis first jumped into his arms all those years ago.

The one thing he had forgotten, though, was how much his first time  _really fucking hurt_ .

“Shit, Louis,” he gasps out, sinking his teeth hard into the skin of Louis' shoulder as his eyes flutter shut, his breath coming in sharp bursts, because he can't remember ever feeling so full and stretched out in his life, feels even fuller now than he did that one time when Louis cuffed him to the bed, arse up, and worked three of his fingers in right alongside his cock until Harry was gasping for breath and had tears rolling down his cheeks and streaking his mascara from how _fucking deliciously good_ it hurt.

It's like that for him again now, and he's so overwhelmed that he doesn't even know what to do with himself. His fingers grapple at Louis' back, nails digging into his skin as Louis starts moving, slow at first but speeding up once Harry digs an insistent heel into his lower back, urging him on, wanting to feel the burn and stretch of it. It isn't until they're coming down after that Harry realises how much he _really_ fucking needed to be fucked.

And, well, they make it all the way to the evening of the fifth day before they realise they haven't actually sung together yet, which is ostensibly the entire reason that they're even here. They've talked about the whole thing since that first night, have spent hours going over every little detail of what could possibly happen, half-joking conversations about time paradoxes and long emotional drawn out conversations about what Zayn's going to do now that he's been left without Perrie (which, by the way, makes Harry feel horribly guilty and inconsiderate when he realises that he hadn't even stopped to consider how lucky he really got with all this, relationship in tact and not really having to go through the awkward experience of pretending not to know his fiancé).

They also questioned, for a while, whether they still really wanted to do the show or not or if they wanted to try it on their own, see if they could make it without the help of X Factor and all the soul-crushing shit that came along with it. Not least among their worries was the fact that it's going to be pretty damn hard to pretend to be some new, unseasoned band when they actually know all these songs backwards and forwards, were, in their own time, about to wrap up a massive world tour and start gearing up for next year's stadiums.

“But maybe,” Liam says finally on the fifth night after they've tried out singing Torn and realised that, of course, it works just as well as it always has, far better than their first group audition, “if we come in looking real polished, Simon'll just pat himself on the back for a job well done and think it was all down to him.”

“Do we really want to big him up that much though?” Louis asks, raising an eyebrow as Niall reaches over to turn off the looped instrumental track. “Of all people, like, Simon Cowell doesn't need an ego boost.”

They all agree, though, that they'll just have to find a way to make it work without being too obvious that they already know each other inside and out, inexplicably, after only a week together. And it's hard to leave all of that once their time at the bungalow finally comes to an end, unbelievably hard for all of them to just pack up their things and go back to families that aren't really even their families anymore, at least not like they've come to know them.

People change a lot in three years, and as weird and uncomfortable as Harry's found himself feeling around Gemma and his mum and Robin, it's just as bad for the other boys, even worse for Louis who has to pretend like he doesn't know anything at all about his mum's impending divorce, has to pretend like everything's normal and fine when he really just wants to scream about it all.

They hold each other for a long time in the driveway before they leave, all five of them at first and then just Harry and Louis for a very long moment, whispering together in private little half sentences when the boys give them their space to say a proper goodbye to each other. It won't be exactly like the first time, won't feel as horrible as it did when Harry woke up alone and had no idea what was going on, but it'll still be hard, obviously, to be away from Louis, especially when Louis' one of the only four people on the entire planet who actually knows who he really is.

The week at the bungalow feels like a dream, basically, and it passes so quickly that Harry's almost left reeling when it ends. He knows they'll all be together again in Spain in just a few weeks' time, but... well, it's _hard_ , just leaving them all like this. He kisses Louis one last time, intense and breathless, before Louis gets in the car to head back to Doncaster. Not home, not to their house in London or to the big, sprawling estate in LA with the freshly painted baby room, but just... away.

Harry can't help but feel a bit hollow, honestly, as he watches the car round the bend in the road, and he sighs, turning back to look at the little house, the place suddenly feeling so empty now after a week spent with his boys.

His phone beeps in his pocket, and he fumbles as he pulls it out to read the message on the screen.

_I love you, see you soon. XXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Harry takes a deep breath and shakes the tension from his shoulders. This isn't goodbye, he reminds himself. He's going to be fine. Two weeks on his own? He can do that, has done it hundreds of times before. He can totally do this.

 


End file.
